The Wistful Throne
The rain did not fall so much as it was hammered into the earth by a wind that smelled of wet iron and dying leaves. You stood at the threshold of the manor, your knuckles white against the splintered oak, feeling the vibration of the storm in your teeth. Inside, the house was a beast that breathed in slow, decaying gulps, the dust motes dancing in the shafts of lightning that tore through the...
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