The Wistful Throne
The chisel bit into the stone base, and Ofelia Beltrán felt the vibration travel up her wrist, a cold shudder that matched the draft leaking from the sealed archive door. She was twelve, small enough to fit between the shelves of ledgers, but the stone seat before her loomed like a headstone, its surface slick with a moisture that smelled of iron and old rain. The Wistful Throne, the Archivist...
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