The Wistful Throne
"You can’t hold a chair that isn’t there, Silas." I didn’t look up from the polishing cloth. The mahogany of the high-backed seat gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights of the chamber, a dark, oily reflection of my own haggard face. The air in the Great Hall of the Meridian Foundation smelled of lemon pledge and old dust, a scent that had begun to rot in my nostrils weeks ago, long before...
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