The Wistful Mountain
The banquet hall did not exist in the world of men, nor in the geography of the known earth, but rather in the liminal space where the fog of the warfront had grown so thick and so heavy with the scent of gunpowder and rotting lilies that it had solidified into a cathedral of glass and bone. Margaret Holloway sat at the head of a table that stretched into an infinity of polished obsidian, the...
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