The Wistful Throne
The brass trigger guard of the Lee-Enfield was cold, a specific, biting chill that seeped through the leather of Elias Thorne’s palm and settled deep in the bone of his wrist. He held the rifle not with the loose grip of a man waiting for orders, but with the white-knuckled tension of a man holding a dam against a flood. The street beneath his boots, once paved with the grey granite of the old...
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