The Wistful Throne
The rain fell in sheets against the high, leaded windows of the Watchtower, blurring the gray city below into a smear of stone and shadow. Thomas Bradshaw stood on the battlements, his back to the door, watching the storm batter the ancient ramparts of Oakhaven. He was a large man, broad in the shoulders and thick in the neck, but his posture had collapsed inward, a heavy burden pressing him...
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