The Wistful Show
The count had reached three hundred and forty-two coins when the silence fell. It was a precise inventory, the weight of the purse measured against the day’s labor, but the hum in the air stopped it cold. Caelan stood before the High King’s throne, his hands still open, the gold spilling back into the leather pouch with a dull, rhythmic clatter that seemed obscenely loud in the sudden quiet. He...
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