The Pale Garden
The air in the Grand Hall tasted of ozone and old dust. It hung thick, a visible haze that clung to the velvet drapes and settled in the crevices of the marble floor. Margaret stood at the center of the room, her spine rigid, her hands clasped behind her back. She was a figure of quiet authority, a woman who had spent decades mastering the art of stillness. Around her, the courtiers shifted,...
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