The Wistful Throne
The rain did not fall upon the city of Ashenmoor so much as it condensed, a perpetual, grey exhale that hung in the narrow streets and seeped into the bones of the ancient stone, a dampness that had no beginning and seemed to possess no end, a sorrow that was not merely weather but the very atmosphere of our confinement, for we were not free to leave, nor were we permitted to truly arrive,...
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