The dinner table was set for thirty. It was a grotesque display of luxury in a time of siege.We were using the remaining stock of the Royal Cellars—crystal goblets that had survived the Coup, plates of gold-rimmed porcelain, and enough silverware to melt down and forge a tank. But the food... the food was the tragedy.We were serving roasted root vegetables, salted fish, and a very dense, very dry loaf of black bread. It was peasant food served on King's china."Positively rustic, Your Majesty," Colonel Jefferson said, slicing into the tough bread with a serrated steak knife. He took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, and swallowed."We call it 'The Resistance Stew'," I said, taking a sip of water. "Because it resists being chewed."Jefferson didn't smile. He didn't even blink. He had eyes like a shark—grey, flat, and dead. He sat at my right hand. Armano stood behind my chair, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. Every time Jefferson moved, Armano shifted his weight, a subtle, pred
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