The Wistful Throne
The ledger lay open on the stone table, its pages yellowed and stiff with damp. Elias Thorne traced the ink with a calloused finger, the smell of mildew and old paper thick in his throat. He owed three hundred pounds, a sum that could buy a man’s life or end it, and the creditors were due at dawn. Outside, the rain hammered against the cellar window, a relentless drumming that matched the...
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