The Wistful Throne
The iron bridge shudders under the weight of the world, a groan that is less a sound than a vibration in the marrow, and you are standing there, small and soot-stained, holding the brass astrolabe that your father left behind in the wreckage of the train. It is a heavy thing, cold and unyielding, etched with the constellations that do not exist in the grey sky above the industrial valley, and...
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