The Wistful Throne
The rain had not stopped for three days. It drummed against the corrugated tin roof of the watchtower, a relentless, industrial percussion that vibrated in the teeth of the man who stood at the center of the room. You were the Senior Warden of Sector Four, a designation that carried the weight of a century’s worth of labor. Your uniform, a heavy wool tunic stained with grease and the particular...
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