The Wistful Voyage
You wake with the taste of iron and old honey on your tongue, the metallic tang of a coin long held in a sweating palm. The room is dim, lit only by the dying embers of the hearth and the pale, sickly glow of the moon slicing through the high, arched window. You are in the upper gallery of the manor, a place that smells of beeswax, damp wool, and the quiet, pervasive decay of time. Your hands...
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