The Wistful Crossroads
The air in the Great Hall tasted of copper and old dust. Silas Vance stood at the center of the room, his hands trembling not from cold, but from the sheer weight of the silence. Around him, the courtiers watched. They were shadows in velvet coats, their eyes like polished stones, reflecting nothing but the light of the chandeliers above. Silas was a merchant of small things. He sold buttons,...
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