The Wistful Throne
The feast in the Hall of Whispers did not begin with a toast, but with a silence so thick it felt like a physical weight pressing against the eardrums, a silence that hung in the air alongside the scent of roasted boar, stale mead, and the metallic tang of old blood, a silence that was broken only by the scratching of quills on parchment and the low, rhythmic humming of the elders who sat in...
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