The Wistful Throne
The chair was wrong. "It is not wood," Elias said, his voice flat, stripped of the usual deference he owed Dr. Aris. He stood in the center of the archive’s sub-basement, the fluorescent lights humming a low, electric drone that seemed to vibrate in his teeth. The object before him sat in the center of the room, isolated by a ring of dust that no vacuum had ever touched. It looked like a...
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