The Wistful Throne
The alabaster floor of the Obsidian Court was cold enough to numb the soles of your boots, a chill that seeped up through the leather and settled in your bones, a physical reminder of the forty years you had spent in its service. You stood alone in the center of the throne room, the silence pressing against your eardrums like deep water, and in your right hand, gripped by fingers that were...
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