The Faded Quadrant
The fire ate the oak table. It ate the silverware. It ate the silence. You stood in the center of the Great Hall, watching the flames lick the high vaulted ceiling. The air was thick with smoke and the smell of burning tapestry. Around you, the courtiers screamed. They clawed at their gowns. They ran for the doors. You did not run. You held the torch. The wood crackled. It popped. It died. "Put...
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