The Wistful Throne

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2026-08-18 19:36:09 -

You dream of the orchard. It is always winter. The branches are bare skeletons against a sky the color of bruised slate. You stand in the center of the grove. Your breath is a ghost. It rises and vanishes. You are waiting. You are not alone. The air is thick with the scent of rot. Sweet and heavy. It clings to your throat. You try to speak. Your voice is dust. They are coming. You see them on...

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