The Wistful Throne
The road to the High Court was a ribbon of grey dust that wound through the hollows of the northern ridge. Elias walked it with a limp that spoke of old winters and older debts. He was a man of letters, a keeper of the old chronicles, but his ink had dried long before his hope had. Beside him walked his wife, Clara. She carried a basket of dried roots and a silence that was heavier than the...
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