The Wistful Throne
The rain had not stopped for three days, turning the gravel path to the old university into a sucking mud that pulled at Elias Thorne’s boots with a wet, relentless grip. He stood beneath the crumbling stone arch of the main entrance, his hands trembling as he held the final grant proposal, the paper already darkening at the edges where his sweat had soaked through. Inside, the air was dry and...
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