The Distant Whispers

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2026-08-18 13:32:41 -

The banquet hall smelled of beeswax and old wine. We were seated at the long oak table, its surface scarred by centuries of knives and rings, beneath the vaulted ceiling where the shadows pooled like ink. I was the youngest scholar of the court, a position that granted me access to the archives but very little power. My father, the High Chancellor, sat at the head of the table, his face a mask...

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