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... d.”
—Aston von Rosenmahl
My eyes wander upward, drawn to the seats of their highness, as though gravity itself pulls me toward that gilded platform. The fork rests heavy in my left hand, the knife in my right. Before me lies a steak, well done. Not how I would choose it. I prefer medium rare, with a softer texture and a more vibrant flavor. Yet blue-blooded meat, even scorched, still carries its richness, still spills its strange succulence across my tongue. So I chew, and though ...
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