The Distant Summer
The soup was cold. It sat in a pewter bowl on the stone table, a grey, congealed mass that smelled of damp earth and old iron. Elara stared at it, her fingers trembling not from the chill of the dungeon, but from the sheer, vibrating intensity of her own heartbeat. She was not a princess, nor a queen, nor even a noblewoman of consequence. She was a prisoner. A thief. A criminal who had stolen...
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