The Wistful Throne
The iron gate of the quarantine zone did not open, but it wept. Elias Thorne pressed his thumb against the cold metal, feeling the sticky, warm residue that ran down the hinges and pooled in the dust below. He was a sergeant of the King’s guard, a man who had spent twenty years keeping the peace in the muddy streets of Aldbury, and he knew the weight of a lock, the tension of a bolt, the...
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