The Wistful Throne
The iron gate of the fortress had not been opened in forty years, and the dust that settled upon its hinges was so thick it had become a soft, grey fur that muffled the sound of the wind as it crept through the cracks in the stone. Inside, the air was stale and tasted of old paper and dried blood, a flavor that Captain Elias Thorne had come to recognize as the distinct taste of time itself,...
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