The Wistful Throne
The iron seal of the Great King’s command was not a symbol of authority but a shackle, a jagged, rusted thing that had been driven into the flesh of the city’s soul long before the first stone of the current garrison was laid, and for three hundred years it had bled, a slow, metallic drip that stained the cobblestones of the Lower Ward with a color that was neither quite red nor quite black,...
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