The Wistful Throne
The iron ration tin was dented on the left side, a crescent moon of crumpled steel that had failed to protect the biscuit inside from the shock of the fall. Thomas Bradshaw held it in his gloved hands, turning it slowly, watching the light catch the jagged edge where the metal had given way. It was a small, mundane object, yet in the grey, fog-choked air of the industrial district of...
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