The Wistful Throne
The long oak table groans under the weight of silver and wax, the candlelight trembling in the draft that seeps through the high arched windows of the great hall, casting long, wavering shadows that dance like restless spirits against the stone walls, and you sit there, your hands folded in your lap, feeling the rough texture of the woolen tunic against your skin, a constant, grounding reminder...
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