The Wistful Letter
You stand at the apex of the gilded cage, the air thick with the scent of stale rosewater and the metallic tang of old blood that has long since dried into the mahogany paneling, and you look out over the assembly of your peers, those men and women whose faces are pale masks of aristocratic boredom, their eyes sliding over you like rain over oil, seeing not the man you are but the uniform you...
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