The Wistful Atlas
The blood is warm. It tastes of copper and old stone. You are on your knees, your hands slick against the marble floor of the Great Hall. Your armor is heavy, a second skin that chafes and bites. Around you, the air is thick with the scent of incense and rot. You are the King’s Guard. You are the law. And yet, here, you are a beast caged by your own duty. You look up. The chandelier above is a...
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