The Wistful Throne
The chair sat in the center of the Ministry’s basement room, a monstrosity of black oak and iron, its legs rooted into the stone floor as if it had grown there from the earth itself. Arthur Vane, a junior clerk whose waistcoat hung loose on his hollow frame, stood before it, trembling not from the cold but from the crushing weight of his own poverty. He needed this promotion. He needed the...
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