The Golden Scar
The bird fell. It did not glide. It dropped. A red smear against the white marble of the throne room floor. I watched it die. It was a starling. Common. Ugly. Yet it was mine. I had raised it from a chick. I had named it. I had loved it with a sickness that ate my nights. It was dead. I looked up. The King sat on the high seat. His face was a mask of bored indifference. Behind him, the court....
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