The Wistful Throne
The dream begins not with light, but with the sensation of weight, a heavy, wet pressure settling upon your shoulders as if you are being buried alive in a mound of damp earth. You are standing in the Great Hall of the Palace of White Stone, a structure that exists only in the twilight of your memory, a place where the air is thick with the scent of ozone and old varnish. You are not a king,...
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