The Wistful Throne

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2026-08-18 05:39:47 -

The alehouse smelled of wet wool and woodsmoke, a thick, cloying scent that clung to the back of your throat. You sat at the head of the long oak table, your hands wrapped around a mug of stout that had gone cold an hour ago. The fire in the hearth crackled, spitting embers onto the flagstones, but the heat did not reach you. It never did. You were the Mason, the builder of the Holloway Spire,...

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