The Wistful Throne
The feast of the dead was held in the great hall of Vane, a spectacle of candles and silence that smelled of lilies and rot. You stood at the edge of the table, your fingers white-knuckled around the petition, watching the High Priest Alaric preside over the banquet of shadows. The air hummed with the voices of the departed, a low, constant drone that pressed against your eardrums, reminding...
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