The Distant Ghost
The obsidian floor of the throne room does not merely hold the weight of the King; it holds his silence, a heavy, black pressure that rises into your lungs as you stand before the dais, your quill trembling in a hand that has copied ten thousand lies for a single wage. You are Elias, a scribe of thirty-two years, and you want to burn the stolen crown to free the realm from the curse that has...
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