The Wistful Asylum

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2026-08-24 14:01:17 -

The air in the Royal Tribunal did not smell of incense or old wood, but of sulfur and wet wool, a pungent mixture that clung to the back of Elias Thorne’s throat as he stood before the High King. He was forty years old, his hands trembling not from the cold, but from the heavy, suffocating weight of the Obsidian Mantle draped over his shoulders, a garment woven from the shadows of the executed...

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