The Wistful Atlas
The feast of the Guild Hall was a suffocation of wine and roasted pork, the air thick with the cloying scent of beeswax and ambition. You sat at the edge of the long oak table, your right hand hidden beneath a sleeve of heavy wool, the fabric damp with a sweat that was not entirely your own. The candlelight flickered, casting long, jagged shadows that danced across the parchment spread before...
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