The Wistful Asylum
The feast hall of the Duke of Valois was a cathedral of gold and greed, where the air hung thick with the scent of roasted swan and the cloying sweetness of spiced wine, a stark and violent contrast to the hollow, aching void in your stomach that had become the constant companion of your final days. You sat at the far end of the long table, a scribe of modest reputation and negligible power,...
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