The Wistful Throne
"Your calibration is off by a margin of error that renders your entire output inert, Margaret." The voice was not loud, but it carried the specific, sterile weight of institutional finality, echoing off the high, vaulted ceilings of the archive hall where the air smelled of ozone, old paper, and the faint, metallic tang of fear. You stood before the Council of Records, a body of seven men and...
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