The Wistful Witness
The chandelier above you is a constellation of cut crystal, each facet catching the light of the chandeliers until the air itself seems to shatter into a thousand cold, bright points that reflect back at you, mocking your own reflection in the glass of the wine in your hand, a thin red line of vulnerability in a room full of power and polished stone. You are Elara, thirty-two, and you are...
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