The Wistful Throne
The sky above the keep of Aethelgard did not fall; it simply ceased to exist, replaced by a churning void of absolute, suffocating blackness that swallowed the stars and the moon and the very concept of night until the world was nothing but a bruise on the face of an indifferent god. Seraphina stood at the edge of the parapet, her armor dented and dull with the dust of three days’ march,...
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