The Wistful Throne
The door to the basement was not locked, which was the first wrong thing. Elias stood in the hallway, his boots heavy on the old parquet, listening to the silence of the house. It was a thick, wet silence, the kind that settles before a storm breaks over the coast. He was forty-two, but his hands shook like those of a man twice his age. The uniform he wore was clean, pressed sharp by the hands...
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