The Wistful Throne
The seal was broken. Not by force, but by time. A hairline fracture ran through the red wax, splitting the crest of the Griffin in two. Elara stood before the high table, her fingers hovering over the glass case. The air in the Hall of Records was stale, smelling of dust and old varnish. It was a cold day outside, but the stone walls kept the chill at bay. She had come to leave. This was the...
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