The Distant Metropolis
The air in the Hall of Whispers was thick with the scent of ozone and old paper, a perfume that clung to the wool of Marcus’s coat long after he had left the city behind. It was a feast of shadows, not of food, where the elite of the modern court gathered not to dine but to trade in the currency of secrets. Marcus sat at the periphery, his posture rigid, his eyes scanning the crystal...
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