The Wistful Throne
The banquet hall smells of roasted pheasant and wet wool, a thick, cloying scent that hangs in the air like a suspended judgment, and you sit at the head of the long oak table, your fingers wrapped around a crystal goblet that feels shockingly cold against your skin, while the laughter of your colleagues rises in waves around you, a sound that is almost physical in its weight, pressing against...
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