The Wistful Show
I woke choking on the taste of rust. The dream was not a dream; it was a memory of the sludge in the King’s Ditch, thick and black, pulling at my boots. I sat up in the narrow bed of the holding cell, the iron bars cold against my back. My name is Elias Thorne. I am forty-two. I am a Royal Constable, and I am guilty. The tribunal is set for noon. I have one night to clear my name, or at least,...
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