The Wistful Throne
The gate of the Iron Citadel was not merely a door; it was a wound in the stone, wide and black against the pale morning fog. Captain Elias Thorne stood before it, his boots caked with the red clay of the outer fields, and watched the heavy oak shutters rattle in their iron frames. He did not look up at the banners snapping above the ramparts. He looked at his hands. They were trembling, a...
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