The Wistful Throne
The rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a thick, grey curtain that had hung over the manor of the Ashworth estate for forty days and forty nights, turning the world outside the high-paned windows into a smear of charcoal and slate. It was a sound that lived inside the bones, a low, rhythmic thrumming that seemed to vibrate up from the cellar stones and through the soles of one's feet, a...
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