The Wistful Throne
The glass is cracked. A web of fissures radiates from the center, a starburst frozen in time. You hold it in your hands, the weight of it surprising, heavy for so little substance. It is a monocle, but not for the eye. It is for the soul. Or so the ledger claims. You are twelve. You are in the Hall of Records, a place that smells of dust, ozone, and old paper. The walls are lined with shelves...
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