The Wistful Throne
The frost had settled into the crocks of the cobblestones in Millhaven like a fine, grey powder, muffling the sound of the carriage wheels and turning the world into a hushed, brittle thing that seemed to hold its breath in anticipation of a violence that had long since passed its expiration date. In the center of the town square, where the market stalls usually erupted in a chaotic symphony of...
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