The Faded Quadrant
You wake with a mouthful of rust. It is the taste of iron, old and sharp, coating the back of your throat. You expect the ceiling of the study, the familiar plaster cracked like dry earth. Instead, you see the vaulted stone of the Grand Hall. You are lying on the cold floor, your cheek pressed against the worn velvet of a ceremonial carpet. Your left hand is tucked beneath you, hidden in the...
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