The Wistful Throne
The stone in Kaelen’s chest screamed before the first arrow hit the bridge. It was a low, grinding shriek, like tectonic plates shifting under ice, and it forced him to his knees on the slick wood of the Blackwater span. He was forty years old, and his armor felt heavier than it had in twenty years of service, not because of the iron, but because of the weight of the thing beating against his...
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