The Wistful Throne
The oak chair in the basement of the Royal Library did not creak, nor did it settle into the floorboards with the groan of old wood; instead, when Elias Thorne placed his palm against its cracked armrest, it whispered, a low, sibilant sound like dry leaves skittering across a tombstone. Elias, fifty-two years old and bent by three decades of cataloging, kept his hand there for a long moment,...
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