The Wistful Throne
The snow had not yet begun to fall on the Abbey of St. Jude, but the cold was already a living thing, pressing against the heavy oak doors that Elias pushed open with his entire body weight, his breath misting in the grey air. He was thirty years old, a scribe whose hands were stained permanently with the iron-gall ink of his trade, and he carried within his chest a debt so crushing it felt...
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