The Wistful Throne
The summons came not as a shout, but as a low, grinding friction in the back of Elias’s skull, a sound like gravel being dragged across wet concrete. He stood in the center of the Antechamber, twelve years old, wearing a suit that cost more than his father’s annual salary. The room was sterile, a white marble expanse that reflected his own small, sharp face back at him with terrible clarity. He...
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