The Wistful Throne
The iron gate stood open. It should not have been open. Cato checked the seal. The wax was broken. Not cracked. Broken. A clean, jagged tear that spoke of force, or perhaps of a key that had been lost and then found. He smoothed the rough edge with a thumb that had spent twenty years on triggers and levers. His skin was dry, flaking at the knuckles. The cold bit into his bones. He stepped...
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