The Wistful Throne
The rain did not fall so much as it settled, a heavy, grey silt that coated the cobblestones of Harrow Lane in a film of cold mud, slicking the boots of the men who stood in a loose, shivering semicircle before the imposing, soot-blackened facade of the Ashworth Mill, a monolith of brick and iron that loomed over the village like a judge whose verdict had already been signed and sealed in the...
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