The Wistful Throne
The salt spray had long since dried into a white crust on the stone walls of the keep, but the air still tasted of iron and old blood. Thomas Whitmore stood at the center of the Great Hall, his hands bound not by rope but by the heavy, suffocating weight of the silence that hung over the assembled knights. He was a man of few words, a steward of the granaries who had risen through the ranks not...
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