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... r confession, execution, or, gods forbid, midwinter discount sales.

But this? This line felt older. Hungrier. Like the floor itself was sizing up its next meal and quietly hoping you tasted of despair and poor impulse control.

We stood at the edge of Greed’s waiting room—an atrium carved from stone and heat, lit by oil lamps and the glint of crushed gems. Sand whispered across the ground as other guests filed in, drawn and worn, their eyes already drinking in the spectacle before ...

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