The Faded Guest
The first crack sounded like a dry twig snapping in a winter forest. Elara winced, pressing her left hand against the cold stone floor of the throne room. The bone ground against itself, a jagged friction that sent a spike of white pain up her arm. She was thirty years old, and her hands were the only currency she possessed. In this damp, fog-choked court of the Pale King, the rules were...
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