The Wistful Throne
The bell rang. It did not chime. It screamed. A jagged shard of sound that split the grey morning air of Harrowgate. I stood on the steps of the old church, my boots heavy with wet mud. The rain was thin. It was cold. It tasted of iron. I am Sergeant Elias Thorne. I have worn the badge for thirty years. The metal is cold against my chest. It weighs more than my soul. I look at the crowd. They...
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