The Wistful Throne
The rain tapped against the glass like a patient ghost seeking entry. Inside the archive, the air was still and smelled of dust and decay. Elias Thorne stood before the reading room’s single desk. He was a small man, precise in his movements, with eyes that seemed to scan the world for cracks. His colleagues called him meticulous. They called him rigid. They did not know that he was listening...
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