The Wistful Throne
The feast was loud enough to shake the rafters of the old manor, a cacophony of clinking silver and raucous laughter that rolled out into the cold night like a tide. I stood at the edge of the hall, my hands trembling not from the chill but from the hunger that had become my second skin. Around me, the lords and ladies of Ashworth Hall moved with a grace that seemed borrowed, their silks...
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