The Wistful Throne
The feast was not a celebration of joy but a ritual of endurance, a sprawling tableau of gold and grease that seemed to consume the very air of the Great Hall until the candles flickered in a frantic, dying rhythm against the stone walls. We sat in our ranks, the Iron Guard of King Aethelred, our armor polished to a mirror sheen that reflected the distorted, sweating faces of our peers, and the...
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