The Wistful Throne
The iron crown did not sit well upon the brow of the man who dreamed of wearing it, for it was not made for the shape of a mortal skull but for the geometry of a myth that had long since decayed into the rust of history, and in the dream, the metal was not cold but burning hot, a brand pressed into the soft tissue of his forehead, scorching away the last remnants of his own identity until there...
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