The Wistful Throne
The gate was not a door. It was a wound in the sky. Elias stood before it. His hands shook. He was a man made of iron and regret. He had worn the crown for ten years. It was a heavy thing. It was a cold thing. It was his own head, fused with the metal. He could not take it off. He had tried. He had bled for it. The metal bit into his skin. It became part of his bone. "You look thin, Elias,"...
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