The Wistful Throne
The rain hammered against the corrugated tin roof of the depot, a relentless, industrial drumbeat that drowned out the ticking of the station clock. Sergeant Major Elias Thorne stood at the head of the line, his uniform pressed and dark, his spine a rigid steel rod in the dim, gaslit room. He was fifty-four, but he moved with the coiled tension of a man half his age. Beside him stood his men, a...
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