The Wistful Petal

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2026-08-20 00:34:33 -

The Wistful Petal

The banquet hall of the City of Whispers did not smell of roasted meats or spilled wine, but of wet chalk and old parchment, a scent that clung to the back of the throat like a persistent, dry cough. We sat in a long, curved arrangement of oak benches that seemed to grow directly from the flagstones, their surfaces polished to a dull, ghostly sheen by centuries of invisible hands. Above us, the...

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