The Wistful Throne

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2026-08-23 01:02:45 -

The dream was always the same, a rotting oak throne sinking into wet earth, the wood black and weeping sap that smelled of iron and old blood. Brother Elias woke with the taste of that decay in his mouth, his fingers stained black with the ink of the ledger he had been copying all night, the pages fraying at the spine like dead skin. He was forty-two, a scribe with a back that ached in the damp...

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