The Wistful Throne
The wine cup cracked in your hand. Red liquid bled onto the tablecloth, mixing with the spilled grease of the roast duck. You are Ewan. You are thirty-two. You are a border warden. You want to cross the northern pass before the snow kills the village. The system says no. The system is Magistrate Halloway, sitting across from you, smiling with teeth too white for that mouth. He praises your...
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