The Wistful Throne
The letter was stamped with the seal of the Royal Guild of Apothecaries, the red wax cracked down the middle like a dry riverbed. Elias Thorne held it in his left hand, the paper trembling slightly not from fear, but from the cold that had settled into his knuckles during the long carriage ride from the village. He read the words again, the ink sharp and black against the cream-colored stock....
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