The Wistful Throne
In the dream, the city was made of glass, a shimmering, fractured mirror that reflected not the sky but the deep, bruised purple of a dying ocean, and Elias stood at the center of this impossible metropolis, holding a small, iron-bound chest that hummed against his palms like a trapped heartbeat. He was not alone; around him, the crowd was a silent, shifting tide of grey coats and pale faces,...
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