The Distant Temple
The banquet hall smelled of roasted duck and expensive regret, a thick, cloying scent that clung to the back of your throat as you sat in the corner, unnoticed by the sea of silk and polished silver. You were Thomas Bradshaw, or at least that was the name the court had stamped into your identity before they stripped it away, leaving only the bruised, trembling thing that remained. Around you,...
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