The Wistful Throne
The carriage wheels bit into the gravel, a rhythmic grinding that sounded like the grinding of old bones. Thomas Ashworth sat by the window, his hands resting on his knees, stiff and pale as parchment. He was leaving the estate, the house that had held him for forty years, to return to the university where his chair waited, empty and cold. It was a departure, but it felt less like a leaving and...
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