The Wistful Throne
The feast is not a meal but a verdict, served on silver platters that have outlived the hands that polished them, and you sit at the far end of the long oak table in the Great Hall of Ashworth Manor, your chair scraped back with a sound like a bone snapping under the weight of your own hesitation. The air is thick with the scent of roasted pheasant, damp wool, and the metallic tang of old...
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