The Wistful Throne
The fluorescent lights hummed, a low, persistent drone that seemed to vibrate in the marrow of Elias Thorne’s bones. He stood in the center of the sterile white room, his hands clasped behind his back, staring at the double doors of the medical wing. Across from him sat Captain Silas Vane, a man whose uniform was pressed with such geometric precision it looked like armor. Vane did not look up...
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