The Wistful Petal
The dust in the throne room did not settle; it hung in the air like suspended time, a thick, grey particulate that coated my tongue and gritted between my teeth as I stepped across the threshold. I am Elias Thorne, Royal Archivist, forty-two years old, and I have spent the last two decades cataloging the quiet deaths of minor nobles, but today I stood alone in the silent, dust-choked hall, my...
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