The Distant Summer
The heavy silver tongs, cold and stiff in her grip, held a single blackberry suspended above the porcelain plate. Elara watched the juice darken the white rim as she stood in the center of the High Chancellor’s banquet hall, the air thick with the scent of roasted game and expensive wax. She was thirty years old, and the weight of the tongs felt like the only solid thing in a room that had...
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