The Wistful Throne
The soot in the Hall of Records did not merely settle; it breathed. Elara Vance, thirty years old and hollowed by a decade of debt, watched the black dust drift through the shaft of pale light that pierced the high window. She was an archivist of the lowest order, a woman who sorted the whispers of the dead into ledgers while her own life crumbled under the weight of her father’s unpaid...
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