The Wistful Throne
The iron seal cracked not with a thunderous roar but with the dry, brittle sound of a bone snapping under the heel of a boot, a sharp, final exhalation that seemed to suck the very air from the damp, candle-lit corridor of the Citadel of Ashworth, where the shadows of the ancient oaks outside pressed their blackened fingers against the stained glass windows like the hands of the dead begging...
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