The Faded Dust
The dust in the throne room is not merely dirt; it is the accumulated residue of centuries of silence, a fine, grey powder that settles on the velvet cushions and the polished stone floor with a weight that feels almost tangible against your skin. You stand at your post, Elias, thirty-two years of your life compressed into the rigid line of your spine, your hand resting on the hilt of a sword...
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