The Wistful Throne
"You have blood on your hands." The voice is low. It comes from the shadows behind the high-backed chair. I do not turn. I keep my eyes on the floor. The stone is cold. It bites through my thin leather boots. I feel the chill rise up my legs. It settles in my bones. I am still. I have been still for three days. "Look at me," says the voice. I turn slowly. My neck cracks. A sharp pain. I ignore...
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