The Wistful Throne
The ink bled into the parchment, a black stain that felt less like writing and more like a wound. I held the quill steady, my hand trembling with a violence that shook the entire desk. Outside the high, arched windows of the University of St. Jude, the London fog pressed against the glass like a living thing, hungry and gray. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of old paper and the sharp,...
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