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He had slipped out onto one of the palace balconies under the pretense of needing air, though in truth he needed space - space from the music, from the eyes, and from the tension he had woven through the hall like a silk thread pulled too tight.
Stone was cold beneath his palms as he rested them on the balustrade. The city beyond glittered, distant and indifferent, a constellation of lights that did not care about coronations, bloodlines, or the carefully staged provocations of one ...
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