The Wistful Throne
The iron keys are still warm in your palm, a residual heat that feels less like metal and more like a living pulse, as you stand before the arched doorway of the East Wing. You are the Inquisitor’s hand, the man who measures the sins of the faithful with a yardstick of stone and scripture, and you know that the air in this house is thick with the scent of damp wool and rotting lilies. The task...
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