The Wistful Throne
The rain on the windowpane of the secure holding facility did not fall so much as it smeared, a grey, viscous layer that blurred the world outside into a smear of indistinct light and shadow, and it was in this suffocating, wet twilight that Elias Thorne sat on the edge of his cot, his hands resting on his knees, feeling the raw, stinging absence of the ring that had once encircled his left...
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