The Wistful Throne

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2026-08-19 05:03:56 -

I dreamed of the riverbed. It was not a dream of water, but of absence. The mud was packed tight, cold, and smelled of iron and old rot. I was standing in the center of it, my boots sinking to the ankles, and everywhere I looked, there were stones. Not just stones, but eroded stones, their surfaces pitted and smooth as bone, worn down by a friction that had no beginning. I reached for one, and...

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