The Wistful Throne
The fire did not start with a spark, but with a silence so profound it seemed to swallow the air from the lungs of every person in the Great Hall. Elara stood by the window, her hands resting on the cold iron grille, watching the smoke rise from the lower kitchens, a gray ribbon unspooling into the twilight sky. She was not afraid. Fear had been a luxury her family had lost three winters ago,...
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