The Wistful Show
The air in the antechamber tasted of ozone and the copper tang of old blood, a scent that clung to the back of your throat like a bad penny you couldn’t spit out. You stood there, Elias Thorne, Captain of the Royal Guard, your hand resting on the pommel of your sword while the Chancellor’s voice drifted over from the shadows, dry as parchment and twice as brittle. "The King’s shadow is...
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