The Wistful Throne
The bell in the tower of Saint Jude’s did not ring; it screamed. It was a jagged, metallic shriek that tore through the damp morning mist of the city, a sound so violent it seemed to crack the very stones of the ancient walls. Thomas Whitmore stood in the center of the nave, his hands trembling as he held the heavy, iron-bound chest of his father. The wood was black with age, worn smooth by the...
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