The Wistful Mountain
Georgi Adamyan, twenty-five, a court duelist of the Silver Laurel, stood in the salt-stained air of the arena, his hand extended to the Chancellor, a gesture that was refused with the cold precision of a ledger entry. The Chancellor’s gaze did not linger on Georgi’s palm; it slid past him to the empty chair in the front row, a velvet throne reserved for the dead, a place where the silence sat...
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