The Golden Echoes
The king sat on a throne of ice. It was not a metaphor. The stone was frozen solid, slick with a rime that bit into the flesh. He did not shiver. He had forgotten how to shiver. Thomas stood at the foot of the dais. His boots were wet. The water had frozen around his ankles. He did not know if he should pull away. He knew he should pull away. The air in the Great Hall was thin and sharp. It...
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