The Throne of Salt is not, strictly speaking, a throne. It is more of a geological tantrum — a heap of crystallised minerals that insists on presenting itself as royalty. Whether this is due to erosion, ritual, or the universe’s sense of humour remains unconfirmed.
The site sits at the edge of a dried sea that never officially existed, according to every map that wishes to remain respectable. Wind scrapes the salt into new shapes daily, which means the throne has never looked the same twice. Photographs disagree with each other; sketches age prematurely.
Fragments recovered here tend to be brittle, pale, and unreasonably dignified. Many carry the dusty shine of objects that once held great authority but have since accepted a quieter retirement. Some pieces appear water-worn, which is particularly impressive in a place that allegedly hasn’t seen water in centuries.
Researchers visiting the Throne report a faint aftertaste of regret in the air, as if the place remembers being oceans once and hasn’t quite forgiven itself. Standing too close results in mild dehydration and occasional existential clarity. Neither condition is medically dangerous, though several scholars have quit their careers immediately afterward.
As for why artefacts collect here, the current theory is simple: salt remembers everything, even when the rest of the world forgets.