The Wistful Throne
The mud was the first thing to give way, a thick, sucking black paste that swallowed the iron-shod boots of Commander Elias Thorne and the men of the Ninth Legionary Cohort as they pushed through the dense, fog-choked undergrowth of the Blackwood, a stretch of ancient forest that the maps of the Empire marked only as a void, a place where the rules of law dissolved into the howling wind and the...
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