The Wistful Atlas
The great hall of the Alabaster Citadel was not merely a room but a breathing organism of stone and light, its vaulted ceiling lost in a mist of incense and memory, where the air itself seemed to possess a viscosity that slowed the passage of time and weighed upon the shoulders of every guest present. I stood at the periphery of the opulent banquet, my robes of deep indigo blending into the...
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