The Wistful Throne
The rain fell upon the cobblestones of the lower city with a rhythmic, relentless percussion that seemed to mimic the beating of a heart suspended in time, each drop striking the wet stone with a clarity that cut through the fog like a needle through grey silk, and in the center of this damp, weeping square stood Silas Thorne, a man whose armor was not of steel but of silence, whose hands, once...
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