The Wistful Petal

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2026-08-19 02:35:43 -

The Wistful Petal

The banquet hall smelled of burnt sugar and wet wool, a thick, cloying scent that clung to the back of the throat like a guilty secret. Thomas Bradshaw sat at the far end of the long oak table, his hands trembling slightly as he adjusted the collar of his velvet doublet. The fabric was heavy, dark as a midnight sky, and it fit him with a snugness that felt less like clothing and more like a...

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