The Wistful Throne
The smoke hangs low. It tastes of iron and burnt sugar. You sit at the long table. The wood is dark, polished by years of oil and hands. Around you, the officers drink. They laugh. Their voices are loud. They are happy. You are not happy. You are watching the door. You are always watching the door. The room is a mess of brass and red. Candles flicker in the wind that comes through the cracks....
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