The Wistful Throne
You wake in a room made of iron and steam, the air thick with the taste of rust and ozone. The light here is not sunlight; it is a sickly, amber glow from gas lamps that hiss and sputter in the corners, casting long, jagged shadows against the walls of polished mahogany. You are sitting on a chair that is too large for you, its armrests carved into the shapes of lions that seem to be screaming...
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