The Wistful Throne
The order lay on the scarred oak table, the ink still wet, smelling of iron and authority. You read it twice. Then a third time, your fingers tracing the jagged line of the signature, Commander Vane’s scrawl like a claw mark on the parchment. It was simple: abandon the northern pass, retreat to the keep, seal the gate. The justification was a report of a massed enemy force, a siege that would...
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