The Golden Visit
The fog did not drift into the throne room; it poured, thick and grey, smelling of wet stone and old iron. Elias stood at the foot of the dais, his fingers curled into the hem of his black tunic, watching the Pale King’s hand tremble over the silver goblet. The court was a sea of silk and steel, a banquet of excess that felt suddenly, horribly thin. He was here to find the source, to cut out...
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