The Wistful Throne
The rain did not fall so much as it was thrown, a gray, relentless shrapnel that turned the cobblestones of the Lower Ward into slick, treacherous mirrors. In the center of this wet, churning chaos stood Elias Vane, a man who had spent the last thirty years of his life translating the quiet syntax of dead poets, now standing in the mud with a rifle that felt like a leaden branch in his...
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