The Wistful Throne

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2026-08-20 10:07:20 -

The iron gate of the Blackwood Facility did not creak; it shuddered, a low, tectonic groan that traveled up through the soles of Elias’s boots and settled in his marrow. He stood at the threshold, his knuckles white against the hilt of a sword that was no longer steel, but a conduit for something far older and far more hungry. Inside, the air tasted of ozone and old blood. "You’re late, Elias,"...

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