The Wistful Throne
The mud on your boots is not merely wet earth; it is the memory of the road you have walked for three years, a dark, sticky testament to the distance between the life you left and the life you now inhabit in this city of stone and shadow. You walk through the streets of Oakhaven, where the fog clings to the cobblestones like a shroud, and you feel the weight of the exile in your bones. You are...
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