The Wistful Throne
The rain in the city did not wash the streets clean; it merely made the grime slicker, a dark sheen that reflected the gaslight in distorted, trembling pools. Elias Thorne stood in the center of Warehouse Four, the air thick with the scent of damp wool and old dust, his fingers tracing the rough seams of a charcoal overcoat. He was forty-five, a man whose face had been slowly eroded by years of...
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