The Faded Frontier
The hall smells of roasted lamb and old stone. You are standing by the hearth, your hands shaking, though the fire is cold. It has been cold for years. The air is thick with smoke that does not rise, but hangs low, pressing against your lungs like a wet wool blanket. Around you, the guests move. They are tall, their faces pale and smooth, devoid of blemish. They do not blink. They do not...
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