The Wistful Show
The air in the Grand Hall of the Iron Palace tasted of copper and stale lavender, a cloying mixture that coated the back of my throat. I stood in the shadow of the gilded candelabra, my hands clasped behind my back, watching Lord Ashworth preside over the table like a vulture perched on a carcass. The chandeliers above us wept light in long, amber threads, illuminating the faces of the city’s...
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