The Wistful Throne
The iron collar sits heavy on your neck, the metal cold against the sweat of your skin, but you do not look down. You look at the man standing before you, the High Bailiff of the City, whose face is a mask of polished stone, carved from the same grey rock that lines the walls of the great hall. He holds the leash in one hand, the other resting on the hilt of a sword that has seen no blood but...
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