The Wistful Throne
The debt is final, Thorne said, his voice cracking not from emotion but from the dryness of a throat that had spent the last three hours screaming at men who refused to hear him, while the magistrate’s deputy stood with his arms crossed, the leather of his baton creaking softly in the humid air. Elias Thorne stood in the center of the yard, the rain slicking his uniform until it clung to the...
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