The Wistful Throne
The iron breathes. That is the only thing you remember with certainty as the blade of the Duke’s executioner finds the gap in your armor, a sound like a bone snapping under the weight of a winter tree. You do not scream, for the air has been beaten out of your lungs, and instead you feel a strange, cold detachment, a separation from the heat of the blood that is currently pooling on the stone...
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