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... nd steel, its floor polished to a cold, reflective sheen. At the far end, on the obsidian throne, sat Nwadiebube.
His posture was regal, but his expression was sharp with irritation. One hand rested lazily on the throne’s armrest, but his fingers tapped against it in a slow, deliberate rhythm, a drumbeat of his mood.
The envoys entered with practiced grace. As they stepped forward, they began the motion of a bow, but Nwadiebube raised his hand. 𝘧𝘳𝘦ℯ𝓌𝘦𝒷𝘯𝑜𝑣𝘦𝓁.𝒸𝘰𝓂
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