The Wistful Throne
"Is it done?" The voice came from the shadows. It was low, raspy, like gravel shifting under a boot. I did not turn around. I could not turn around. If I turned, I would see the look in Thomas’s eyes. I knew what that look would be. It would be the look of a man watching a beast he had raised with his own hands. It would be pity. And pity was a blade sharper than any sword I had ever held....
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