The Wistful Skyline
The feast in the high tower of the Guildhall was not a celebration of abundance, but a ritual of preservation, where the air hung thick with the scent of roasted venison, beeswax candles, and the metallic tang of ambition. In the center of the oak table, surrounded by the gilded plates and silver goblets that marked the hierarchy of the master craftsmen, sat Master Elias Thorne. His hands, once...
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