The Wistful Throne

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2026-08-20 02:58:26 -

The ink was still wet on the parchment. It shimmered with a damp, oily sheen that caught the light from the single, guttering tallow candle. Thomas Ashworth stared at it. The words were simple. They were cold. They were absolute. *Exile. Immediate. Without trial. For the crime of silence.* He did not feel anger. He felt a strange, heavy calm, as if he were standing at the bottom of a deep,...

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