The Wistful Throne
The first tremor came at four in the afternoon, a low, grinding shudder that turned the dust on the shelves into a fine, grey mist. You felt it in your teeth before you felt it in the floor, a vibration that seemed to rise from the bedrock of the city itself, shaking the glass panes of the high windows until they sang a thin, high-pitched note that cut through the silence of the archive. You...
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