The Wistful Throne
The dampness of the scriptorium had settled into my bones long before the ink dried on the parchment. I sat alone in the high window, the autumn wind rattling the leaded glass, while the great oak outside stood rigid against the gale, its roots gripping the frozen earth with a stubbornness that mirrored my own hidden fear. I was forty years old, a scribe of no particular renown, and I wanted...
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