The Wistful Throne
The quill felt heavy in my hand, a dead thing with a spine of bone and a tip of iron that had bitten into my skin for forty years. I held it over the parchment, the inkwell beside me smelling of copper and old rain, and I looked at the final line of the Book of Silence, a text the Guild of Keepers had forbidden for three generations. My daughter, Mara, lay upstairs in the drafty room where the...
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