The Wistful Throne

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2026-08-20 00:22:59 -

The rain did not fall. It hung. Eleanor stood at the edge of the moor. The mist clung to her wool. It was wet. It was cold. It was her shawl. It had been her mother’s. Then her grandmother’s. The wool was dark. It was heavy. It was stained with old sweat. It was stained with old grief. She pulled it tighter. The knots in her chest tightened too. The war was close. You could smell the smoke. It...

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