The Faded Bouquet
You sit in the center of the hall, and the silence is not empty. It is heavy, a physical weight that presses against your sternum, composed of dust motes dancing in shafts of pale light and the lingering scent of dried lavender and old paper. This is the Court of Whispers, a place that exists in the marrow of the castle rather than its blueprints, a realm where the walls breathe and the...
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