The Pale Banner
The air in the rotunda tastes of ozone and old stone. You stand at the threshold. Your uniform is crisp. The white tunic is starched to a brittle edge. It reflects the cold light of the chandeliers above. The gala is in full swing. Orchestral strings swell and fade. The scent of roasted duck and truffles hangs heavy. You are a sentinel. You are a mirror. You are the wall that holds the room...
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