The Wistful Throne
The pumice stone slips from your fingers, skittering across the polished marble floor of the Grand Hall with a sound like a breaking bone. You catch it just before it rolls into the shadows beneath the throne, your knuckles white, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps that taste of copper and old dust. Tomorrow is your last day. Fifty-two years of service, thirty of them in this city’s...
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