The Wistful Throne

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2026-08-17 14:18:17 -

The dream was always the same. It was a corridor of wet slate, stretching endlessly into a gray mist that smelled of iron and old rain. At the end of the hall, on a throne made of rusted gears, sat a figure in a suit that fit too well. It was not a monster. It was just a man. He had the same hollow cheeks, the same tired eyes. He was holding a ledger. He was waiting for Arthur to arrive so they...

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