The Wistful Throne
The gold leaf of the feast hall in 1342 seemed to pulse in the candlelight, a rhythmic throbbing that matched the hammering of my heart. I sat at the long oak table, my hands resting on the polished wood, fingers twitching as if they already held the quill I had not yet picked up. Across the hall, the King raised a goblet of wine, his face a mask of benevolent authority that I knew to be...
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