The Wistful Throne
The morning mist clung to the stone walls of the keep, thick and cold as a burial shroud. Sir Thomas Ashworth stood at the window, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He did not draw it. He simply held it, feeling the weight of the steel against his palm. It was a heavy thing. Heavier than it had been when he was a boy. Heavier than it had been when his father, King Edward, first handed...
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