The Wistful Throne
The winter of 1342 settled upon the valley of Ashford like a shroud, heavy and suffocating, and I woke once again from the same dream where the ice did not melt but deepened, trapping a stag whose antlers were branches of black iron and whose eyes held the weary, wistful light of my own reflection. I am Elias, a tanner of forty years, and my hands are stained with the lye and blood of my trade,...
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