The Wistful Throne
The rain had been falling for three days, a steady, grey curtain that turned the cobblestones of Old London Bridge into slick mirrors. In the cramped room above the chandler’s shop, Elara sat on the edge of her bed, her hands resting on her knees. She was not a woman who wore fine things. Her clothes were roughspun wool, faded to the color of river clay, mended so many times that the original...
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