It started out quiet, lost to the dark in-between breaths and gentle touches. It forged itself in sweat and blood and chary whispers of treason. Its scars ripped across skin and deep throughout the ranks of the Order, sewing seeds of unrest. It grew. It festered. And with one blade to an old, pallid throat, it became a reality.

"And there's an old man sitting on the throne that's saying that I probably shouldn't be so mean; I'm headed straight for the castle."

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