The Wistful Throne
The crimson silk had a voice, and for twenty years, Elias had learned to weave in silence to keep it from speaking. He was forty, his hands roughened by the shuttle, and the winter solstice was six days away, a deadline set by King Henry to secure the pension that would allow him to retire from the court’s grueling demands. The tapestry was nearly finished, a sprawling depiction of the Battle...
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