The Wistful Throne
The silver signet ring lay in my palm, cold as river stone, its surface worn smooth by two decades of my father’s thumb. I held it up to the grey light filtering through the scriptorium’s high windows, turning it slowly to check the engraving, the crest of the Ashworth line, the tiny scratch near the rim where he had dropped it against the stone floor of the cellar. The metal was heavy, a...
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