The Wistful Throne
The cold sits in your bones like a stone that has been warming itself in the fire for too long, only to be cast into the snow. You feel it in the knuckles of your right hand, the one that used to hold the hilt of your sword with such effortless grace. Now, the joints swell with a dull, persistent ache, a reminder that the body is a lease, not a deed. You are old. The realization is not a shock;...
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