The Wistful Atlas
The banquet hall is a cavern of candlelight, where the air hangs heavy with the scent of roasted pheasant and the sweat of three hundred bodies pressed together in the heat, and you stand at the edge of the dais, your fingers trembling around the crystal goblet, watching the King raise his own cup in a toast to the eternal prosperity of the realm, his face a mask of benevolent indifference that...
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