The Wistful Petal

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2026-08-21 10:57:09 -

The Wistful Petal

The air in the Grand Hall of Aethelgard tasted of stale honey and wet stone. It was a Tuesday. Or perhaps a Wednesday. Time had grown thick here, pooling in the corners like spilled ink. Leo sat on the cold flagstones, his knees drawn to his chest. He was twelve, though he looked smaller. His clothes were patches of wool that smelled of woodsmoke and despair. Around him, the feast continued....

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