The Wistful Throne
The truck’s suspension groaned as it crossed the final ridge, the view of the valley below obscured by a low, bruised fog that clung to the earth like a damp sheet. Elias Thorne killed the engine, the silence that followed heavier than the roar of the diesel had been. He was forty-two, a structural engineer by trade and a ghost by circumstance, and he had driven six hours to the Wistful Throne...
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