The Golden Scar
The soup is warm, a thick and golden broth that smells of roasted marrow and old stone, and you hold the bowl with both hands, feeling the heat seep into your palms, a comfort so profound it borders on pain, while around you the Great Hall of the Spire hums with a silence that is not empty but full, a heavy, expectant silence that presses against your eardrums like the depth of a flooded...
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