The Pale Meridian
The air in the Great Hall of the Palace of Saint Jude did not merely smell of wax and old stone, but of a specific, cloying sweetness that clung to the back of the throat like a lie left too long in the mouth, a scent that had permeated the very marrow of the castle walls over centuries of quiet decay and whispered treason, a fragrance that was not entirely of the beeswax polish applied to the...
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