excerpt from a story I will never write - Jihan Mour.
The war was over. Any surviving soldiers were sent to the infirmary to be treated, and generals retired to their quarters for a well-earned rest. Quiet footsteps echo through the great hall, and the messenger stands in front of the Queen, whose stare is like the embers of a fire, daring him to say anything but what she wanted to hear. She had been obsessed with this day, imagining all the ways it could go. Now she wanted her answer.
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