The Wistful Throne
The hammer struck the anvil, and the sound rang out like a crack in the sky. Arthur Vane wiped the sweat from his brow with a rag that had long since lost its color. He stood at the center of the Blackwood Ironworks, the air thick with the smell of sulfur and hot metal. Around him, the men worked in silence. They did not speak to him. They did not look at him. They knew what he was, or so they...
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