The Golden Song
The air in the Hall of Whispers was thick with the scent of roasted pheasant and stale wine, a heavy, cloying perfume that seemed to cling to the velvet hangings and settle into the pores of the skin, making it difficult to breathe, difficult to think, difficult to be anything other than a body present in a room full of other bodies who were smiling and laughing and pretending that the shadows...
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