The Pale Banner
The air in the Grand Chamber of the Whitmore Estate did not smell of decay, as one might expect of a house built to outlast empires, but of ozone and expensive perfume. It smelled of the static charge that precedes a lightning strike. I stood at the periphery of the marble floor, my shoes silent on the polished surface, while Julian, my oldest friend and the architect of my current ruin, held...
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