The Wistful Throne
The parchment lay on the oak table, its edges curling slightly in the dry air of the laboratory, bearing the King’s seal in red wax that looked less like a symbol of authority and more like a dried blood clot. I read it three times, the ink smudging faintly under my thumb, while the rain hammered against the leaded windows of the tower room, a relentless drumming that matched the hollow ache in...
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