The king of vendhya was dying. Through the hot, stifling night the temple gongs boomed and the conchs roared.
- Their clamor was a faint echo in the gold- domed chamber where Bhunda Chand struggled on the velvet-cushioned dais.
- Beads of sweat glistened on his dark skin; his fingers twisted the gold-worked fabric beneath him.
- He was young; no spear had touched him, no poison lurked in his wine.
📘 The People of the Black Circle
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