The Wistful Skyline
The heat in the garrison hall was not merely a temperature but a physical weight, pressing down on the shoulders of every officer present, thick with the scent of roasted duck, spilled wine, and the metallic tang of anxiety that had been simmering since dawn. You, Elias Thorne, sat rigid at the head of the table, your thirty-two years of service compressed into the stiff collar of your dress...
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