The Wistful Throne
The fire did not break out; it arrived, a slow, orange tide that swallowed the valley of Oakhaven in the dead of night, turning the sky into a bruised and breathing thing that pressed against our windows until the glass groaned and then shattered, spilling shards across the floorboards where I stood with my hands trembling not from the heat which was not yet there but from the sudden, terrible...
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