The Wistful Throne
The frost on the windowpane of the watchtower was not merely ice; it was a crystalline map of the kingdom’s decay, intricate and brittle, mirroring the internal architecture of Sir Julian Thorne’s own failing constitution. He stood at the parapet, the stone cold and unyielding against his gauntleted hand, watching the valley below where the mist lay thick as wool, swallowing the road that led...
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