The Golden Greenhouse
The banquet hall smelled of roasted goose and old stone, a thick, cloying scent that seemed to settle in the lungs like damp wool. Sergeant Elias Thorne sat at the edge of the long oak table, his uniform pressed to a sharp, unyielding rigidity that clashed with the sloping, medieval grandeur of the room. He did not eat. He watched the food. It was a grotesque display, an abundance that bordered...
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