The Faded Quadrant
The wine is red and thick, staining the rim of the clay cup, and the laughter in the hall is a physical weight against your chest. You are Elias, forty-two, and your hands, stained with the black grease of escapements, rest on the table as if they belong to a different man. The Guild Master, Aldous, stands before you, his face a mask of benevolent exhaustion, celebrating his retirement and your...
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