The Wistful Throne
The signature was the only thing left to buy, and Elias Thorne knew that the ink in his fountain pen had begun to dry before he had even uncapped it, a thick, black scab forming on the nib that threatened to choke the flow of his final defense. He sat in the center of the cramped, dust-choked office, the air so stale it felt like breathing through a woolen sock, and the heavy velvet coat draped...
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