The Wistful Atlas
The air in the Grand Antechamber of the Obsidian Throne did not merely smell of stale incense and crushed lavender, but of the heavy, cloying weight of centuries that had settled into the very grain of the marble floor, a perfume of decay so potent it seemed to coat the tongue with a metallic taste of forgotten oaths and broken promises. Lord Alistair Thorne stood alone in the center of this...
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