The Wistful Throne
The rain had been falling for three days, a thick, grey curtain that turned the world outside the windows of the orphanage into a blurred, watery smear of mud and broken glass. Inside, the air was still, heavy with the smell of damp wool, boiled cabbage, and the faint, metallic tang of fear that always seemed to linger in the corners of the room where the children slept. I sat on the edge of my...
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