The Distant Temple
The banquet hall smelled of burnt fat and stale wine, a heavy, cloying scent that clung to the back of my throat like a second skin. We were celebrating the containment, or so the brass claimed, though the air in the tent was so thick with the static of the event that the hair on my forearms stood at attention, prickling with a fear that had no name. Captain Harrow sat at the head of the table,...
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