The Wistful Throne
The clock struck four. Silence followed. Heavy. Dense. It pressed against the glass of the study window. Outside, the soot of the mill settled on the cobblestones. A gray shroud. The air smelled of coal dust and wet wool. Arthur stood before the mirror. He was sixty years old. His hair was white. His hands shook. Not from cold. From fear. The book lay on the desk. Leather bound. Black. It had...
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