The Wistful Petal
Thorne. The summons came not from a herald, but from the creak of the oak door in the High Steward’s office, a sound that cut through the silence of the Chancery like a knife through wet cloth. I stood up, my knees cracking, the parchment beneath my fingers damp with the sweat of my palms, and walked toward the heavy double doors that separated the scribes’ bullpen from the throne room’s...
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