The Wistful Throne
The ink is still wet on the third page of my journal, the smell of iron and dried blood heavy in the air of the siege tent, and I am twelve years old, my hands shaking so violently that the quill scratches a jagged line through the paper as I try to record the events of the third day of the Siege of Aethelgard. I want the Iron Crown. I want it because Thomas is behind the enemy lines, held in a...
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