The Wistful Throne
The seal cracked. It was a fine fracture, thin as a vein. Elias noticed it first. He held the object up to the grey light filtering through the high, narrow windows of the vault. The air was still. Dust motes danced in the shafts, indifferent to the weight of history pressing down on them. The seal was ancient. It was not a seal of wax, nor of lead, but of a dense, black stone, carved with...
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