The Wistful Throne
The knife in your right hand is not a weapon today; it is a tool for carving a foothold in the ice, a sharp, cold extension of your thumb that bites into the frozen rock face. You are forty-five years old, and the cold has a way of finding the gaps in your armor, the spaces between the muscle and the bone, reminding you that the body is a machine that rusts from the inside out. Below you, in...
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