The Golden Echoes
The banquet hall of the Whitmore estate is a cavern of gold and shadow, where the air hangs thick with the scent of roasted pheasant, beeswax, and the faint, metallic tang of old blood that seems to seep from the cracks in the parquet floor. You stand at the edge of the room, a sentinel of velvet and silence, your uniform pressed to a razor’s edge, your hands clasped behind your back in a...
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