The Wistful Throne
The road is not a road. It is a vein. It pulses beneath the mud, a deep, rhythmic throb that matches the beat of your own heart. You are walking. Your boots sink into the slurry, releasing clouds of steam that smell of iron and old blood. You are a scholar of the old tongue, a keeper of words that have no weight, yet here, in this place, words have the density of stone. You are Edward Ashworth....
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