The Wistful Throne
The heavy oak doors of the archive room had not been opened in three decades, and the air inside tasted of dust and dried lavender, a scent that clung to the back of your throat like a persistent, silent whisper, forcing you to swallow the dryness before you could even think clearly. You stand in the center of the circular room, your hand resting on the cool, smooth surface of the mahogany...
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