The Wistful Throne
The ink on the ledger page bled into the grain of the wood, a dark stain spreading like a bruise under skin. You pressed the quill harder, the nib scratching a sound like a rat gnawing bone, trying to stop the flow. The static in the air hummed, a low vibration that made your teeth ache and the hair on your arms stand up. Outside the window of the archive, the mist of Oria churned, thick and...
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