The Wistful Throne
The rain had not stopped for three days, a relentless grey curtain that turned the roads into rivers of mud and churned the earth into a slurry that sucked at the boots of those who walked. Margaret Holloway stood at the edge of the treeline, her fingers white-knuckled around the handle of her satchel, watching the procession of soldiers march toward the distant valley. They were not going to...
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