The Wistful Throne
The feast is loud. Too loud. You sit at the head of the table. It is not a table. It is a block of ice. Clear. Cold. The wine is black. You drink. It burns. Not with fire. With memory. Look at them. The others. They are wearing armor. Old armor. Rusted. They eat with their hands. They do not look at you. They look at the floor. The floor is made of bone. White. Clean. Who are they? You do not...
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