The Wistful Throne
The fire did not start with a spark, but with a scream. It tore through the air of the Grand Hall of St. Jude’s, a sound so raw and absolute that the heavy oak doors rattled in their frames. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of melting wax and the metallic tang of fear. Thomas Bradshaw stood in the center of the chaos, his hands trembling not from the heat, but from the sudden, violent...
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