The Wistful Throne
The rain has not stopped in three days. It drums against the high, arched windows of the cell, a relentless, rhythmic pounding that seems to sync with the beating of your heart, which is slower now than it was when you arrived, heavier, as if the blood itself has thickened with the dust of the old world. You are alone. The heavy oak door is barred from the outside, the iron ring cold to the...
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