The Faded Root
The banquet hall of the House of Blackwood was not merely a room but a living, breathing organism of mahogany and dust, where the air hung thick with the scent of stale rosewater and the metallic tang of old blood, a scent that seemed to seep from the very grain of the floorboards and settle into the lungs of every guest who dared to linger in its shadowed corners. It was a place where time did...
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