The Wistful Throne
The feast in the refectory was a lie told in bread and ale, a shimmering mask over the hollow ache of hunger that had settled into the bones of the Abbey of St. Jude. Elara sat at the long table, her fingers stained with the indigo ink of the Duke’s commission, watching the monks eat with the mechanical precision of men who had forgotten the taste of food. She was thirty years old, her hair...
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