The Wistful Show
You hold the sword. It is not steel. It is a scroll of parchment, brittle as old bone, covered in ink that shimmers like oil on water. The ink moves. It breathes. It is the core of the court’s power, the text that binds the souls of the nobility to their duties, to their silence, to their decay. You are a soldier. Or perhaps a guard. The distinction blurs here, in the Hall of Whispers, where...
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