The Wistful Throne
The obsidian shard did not fly through the air so much as it unfolded from the center of the king’s chest, a black petal blooming against the gold leaf of the tapestry, and in that single, suspended instant of violence, Sir Julian Vane stood before the throne room with his hand still raised in the gesture of a scholar’s inquiry, his mouth open to form a word that would never land, while the...
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