The Wistful Throne
The rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a suspended mist that clung to the cobblestones of the industrial district with the tenacity of a widow to a grave. Major Silas Thorne stood at the edge of the churning grey river, his coat heavy with water, watching the steam rise from the factory vents in the distance. It was a cold, metallic cold, the kind that settled in the bones and refused to...
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