The Wistful Throne
The iron door of the subterranean vault swung shut with a finality that felt less like a mechanical action and more like a bone snapping, sealing us into the absolute dark of the underground reservoir, a vast, hollowed-out cathedral of brick and mortar where the air tasted of wet limestone and the metallic tang of old blood, which was not a metaphor but a literal chemical residue from the iron...
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