The Wistful Throne
The dampness in the Imperial Library did not merely settle into the walls; it seeped into the marrow of the stone, a pervasive chill that Elias Thorne had learned to map by the way his fingers stiffened when he reached for the cold iron shelves. He was thirty years old, a man whose life had been reduced to the systematic cataloging of other people’s pasts, and for the first time in a decade,...
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