The Wistful Dinner
Sotiris Makris stood at the center of the room, his spine a pillar of stone against the groaning dark. The dream had not faded when he woke. In the sleep, the throne room walls had bled ink, black rivers running down the plaster until the floor was a pool of wet, heavy dark. He remembered the weight of it, the way the liquid pressed against his boots, cold and final. Now, in the waking world of...
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