The Wistful Throne

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2026-08-24 03:56:13 -

The quill was heavy, its feather plucked from a crow that had died in the courtyard three days prior, and I held it with a grip that white-knuckled the bone. The ink was black, thick as tar, and it smelled of iron and old blood. I was Elias, forty-two years old, a scribe in the Obsidian Court, and I wanted to finish the King’s chronicle by dawn. If I did not, my pardon would be revoked, and the...

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