The Wistful Throne
The banquet hall of the St. Jude’s Institute for the Rehabilitation of the Deviant Mind smelled of roasted lamb, stale beer, and the metallic tang of fear, a scent that clung to the velvet drapes and the polished mahogany of the long tables where the faculty of the university sat in their stiff collars and severe tweeds, watching the creature in the corner with the hungry, unblinking eyes of...
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