The Wistful Dinner
The wax is black. You hold the writ up to the single tallow candle in the barracks, turning the parchment until the light catches the seal. It should be crimson. The King’s seal is always crimson, a bright drop of blood pressed into the wax to signify the sovereign’s will. But this one is black, a void in the center of the document that seems to drink the light rather than reflect it. You have...
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