The Wistful Throne
The ledger was heavy, its leather cover worn smooth by thirty-two years of handling, though Elias Thorne was only thirty-two himself, a clerk who had spent his entire adult life in the service of the Hall. He counted the entries under the oil lamp, his fingers tracing the indented grooves of the ink, each line a promise kept or broken. Outside, the Harvest Feast roared with the noise of fiddles...
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