The Wistful Mountain
The blackened arm weighed four pounds. That was the first thing Sir Eamon noticed, the specific gravity of the rot, the way it pulled his shoulder down, dragging the bone into a permanent, painful angle. He stood before the throne, the stone floor cold through the soles of his boots, and counted the steps to the King’s footstool. Three steps. Three inches of velvet. Three reasons why he was...
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