The Wistful Silence
The chandelier above the Imperial War Council’s banquet table was a lattice of cut crystal, refracting the gaslight into a thousand cold stars that danced across the white tablecloth. Major Elias Thorne sat at the far end of the long oak table, his spine rigid against the mahogany chair, his hands folded neatly in his lap where they trembled slightly, a subtle vibration that matched the low,...
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