The Wistful Throne
The train cut through the grey morning like a blade through wet wool, carrying Silas Vane back to the city that had made him and, in turn, tried to break him. He sat in the corner of the second-class carriage, his spine rigid against the seat, watching the blur of fields and hedgerows slide past the glass. He was not tired, exactly, but he carried a weight in his chest that sleep had not yet...
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