The Distant Metropolis
The banquet hall smelled of roasted goose and stale beer, a thick, cloying scent that clung to the wool of my coat even as I stood by the fire, nursing a cup of cold ale. It was the harvest feast, the one time a year when the village of Oakhaven let down its guard, when the men drank deep and the women laughed too loud, and I, Elias Thorne, schoolmaster for twenty-two years, watched them all...
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