The Wistful Throne
The ledger counted the hours of the solstice: one, two, three. Elias Vane sat in the archives, the ink still wet on the page, watching the light shift from the gold of the afternoon to the bruised purple of the evening. His brother Thomas lay in the chamber above, his breath a rattle in the dry air, a sound that had become the metronome of Elias’s life for the past six months. The court...
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