The Faded Chronicle
The banquet hall smelled of roasted lamb and old money, a cloying mixture that hung heavy in the air, thick enough to taste on the back of the tongue. It was a Friday night in the city, and the air conditioning had been set to a temperature that made the sweat prickle at the hairline of every guest, yet no one moved, no one shifted in their chairs. They sat with the rigid posture of those who...
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