The Wistful Grid
The gold braid on your shoulder is frayed, a tangle of synthetic threads that used to signify the rank of Major in the Royal Household Security Force, a distinction that now feels less like a badge of honor and more like a noose woven from threadbare ambition. You sit at the edge of the velvet-draped table in the Grand Hall, the air thick with the scent of stale champagne and the metallic tang...
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