The Wistful Atlas

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2026-08-20 16:13:12 -

The Wistful Atlas

The feast was loud. It was a roar of metal on wood and the heavy, wet sound of bread being torn. The air smelled of tallow, stale beer, and the sharp, metallic tang of fear that no amount of ale could mask. Marguerite sat at the head of the long table, her hands hidden in her lap. They were trembling. She could feel the vibration of the ground through the soles of her boots. It was a low hum,...

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