The Wistful Throne

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2026-08-21 09:57:57 -

The rain had not stopped for three days. It drummed against the slate roof of the Priory, a rhythmic, hollow percussion that seemed to hollow out the bones of the stone walls beneath. I walked the corridor, my boots slick with mud and damp, the air thick with the smell of wet wool and old wax. My name is Thomas, and I am the Warden of the Archives, a title that sounds grander than the reality...

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