The Wistful Dinner
The banquet hall of the Obsidian Conservatory did not smell of food, but of ozone and old brass, a scent that clung to the back of the throat like a metallic taste after a fever. Elias Thorne, the last of the Archivists, sat at the head of a table that stretched into a darkness so profound it seemed to have weight, pressing against the edges of his vision. Around him, the other Archivists sat...
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