The Wistful Throne
The dream is not of fire, but of paper. You are standing in a white room, walls lined with shelves that stretch up into a darkness you cannot see. The shelves are full of jars. Thousands of them. Glass, sealed, filled with a thick, amber liquid that glows from within. You reach for one. Your hand passes through the glass as if it were smoke. You wake with your hand clutching the air, your...
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