The Distant Wound

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2026-08-19 06:17:34 -

The Distant Wound

The banquet hall of the Ashen Citadel did not smell of roasted meats or spiced wine, as the old songs promised, but of wet wool, cold iron, and the faint, sweet rot of lilies that had been forced to bloom in the dark for a century; Margaret sat at the far end of the long, black table, her fingers resting lightly on the rim of a chalice that held nothing but shadow, and she watched the King, who...

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