The Wistful Show
I Lammert Terpstra stood in the center of the square, his hands shaking not from cold but from the sheer, crushing weight of the air. It was the feast for the new magistrate, a celebration held under a sky so clear the stars seemed to offend the eye with their cold, indifferent brightness. The wine in his cup tasted of iron, a metallic tang that coated his tongue and reminded him of the blood...
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