The Wistful Throne

added blog Literature

2026-08-23 14:20:43 -

The dream was always the same. A withered oak, stripped of leaf and bark, standing alone in a field of grey mud. The wood was black, brittle, and silent. Sir Alistair woke with a gasp, his lungs rattling like dry leaves in a tin can. He was forty-two, a veteran of the border wars, and the damp stone of the keep’s infirmary pressed against his back. He wanted the gold. He needed the victory at...

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