The Wistful Throne
The air in the Undercroft tasted of wet wool and old iron, a heavy, metallic tang that coated the back of my throat and refused to be swallowed. I sat on the cold stone floor, my knees drawn up to my chest, the rough wool of my tunic scratching against my skin in a way that felt less like clothing and more like a shackle. Above me, the vaulted ceiling disappeared into a darkness so profound it...
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