The Wistful Throne
The rain had been falling for three days, a persistent, gray curtain that blurred the edges of the world and turned the cobblestones of the industrial district into slick, reflective pools of mud and memory, and it was in this oppressive, dripping silence that Elias Thorne sat in the parlor of the old family estate, his hands clasped tightly around a cup of tea that had long since gone cold,...
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