The Wistful Throne
The pheasant was carved with a surgical precision that seemed out of place among the clinking crystal and the murmur of the Ministry’s senior staff. Elias Thorne sat at the head of the long oak table, his fingers resting on the linen napkin, feeling the faint, static hum of the Silent Ledger still clinging to his skin. He had not touched the volume in three days, yet the cold charge persisted,...
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