The Wistful Throne

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2026-08-20 14:52:43 -

The rain fell in sheets. Grey. Cold. It hammered the cobblestones of the Old Quarter, turning the mud into a slick, black mirror. You walked. Your boots were heavy. Leather, cracked. Soaked through. The weight of them pulled at your ankles. You were tired. Bone tired. The kind of tired that sleeps in the marrow. You carried the box. It was small. Wooden. Oak. Bound in iron. It did not look...

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