The Wistful Throne

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2026-08-22 22:49:46 -

The parchment smelled of iron and dried lavender, a scent that had long since seeped into the grain of the oak desk where I, Elias, sat hunched over my mortar and pestle, grinding cinnabar into a powder fine as ash. It was the fourteenth of October, 1348, and the air in the quarantine wing of the castle was thick with the stench of sickness and the heavier weight of my own ambition. I wanted...

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