The Wistful Throne
The train rattles through the grey dawn, a steel ribcage breathing in the cold air. You sit by the window, watching the fog peel away from the city blocks like dead skin, revealing the skeletal geometry of the modern metropolis. In your lap rests a velvet case, worn thin at the edges, heavy with a weight that is not physical. Inside lies the Obsidian Sherd, a fragment of a sculpture you have...
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