The Wistful Atlas
The banquet hall of the Ashworth estate had been built to hold the weight of a kingdom’s pride, its vaulted ceilings adorned with frescoes of saints who had long since forgotten the names of the sinners they were meant to forgive. Yet on this particular autumn evening, the air inside was thick not with the scent of roasted pheasant and spiced wine, but with the heavy, metallic tang of a secret...
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