The Wistful Skyline
The feast was a cacophony of silverware striking crystal, a sound that cut through the heavy, perfumed air of the Great Hall like shards of ice, and I sat at the far end of the long oak table, my fingers wrapped tightly around a goblet of wine that had long since lost its warmth, feeling the chill of the stone floor seep up through the soles of my boots and into the marrow of my bones, where it...
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