The Wistful Throne
The rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, gray veil that draped over the village of Oakhaven like a shroud of wet wool, turning the cobblestones into slick, dark mirrors that reflected the trembling silhouettes of the guards who patrolled the narrow, winding streets with a vigilance that bordered on obsession. Sir Thomas Vane stood at the threshold of the old watchtower, his hand...
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