The Wistful Throne
You wake with the taste of iron and old wine on your tongue, the heavy, velvet darkness of the room pressing against your eardrums like a physical weight. It is not a dream, though the boundaries here are thin as spider silk, woven from the breath of ghosts and the memory of stones. You are in the attic of the manor, a space that smells of damp wool, decaying parchment, and the faint, sweet rot...
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