The Wistful Throne
Thorne! Thorne, you bastard, get your hands off the ledger! The shout came from the corridor, sharp as a cracked whip, echoing off the high, vaulted ceilings of the Royal Mint’s assay office. I froze, my pen hovering over the page, the ink blotting into a black tear on the crisp white paper. The noise stopped. The clatter of the stamping presses in the next room seemed to recede, muffled by the...
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