The Wistful Saga
The banquet hall of the Aetherium did not smell of roasted meats or spiced wine, but of ozone and old paper, a scent that clung to the velvet drapes like a persistent ghost, and it was here, amidst the clinking of crystal goblets that held liquid starlight, that Julian Vane stood in his pristine white tunic, a garment so fine it seemed woven from the very silence of the room, watching the...
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