The Wistful Throne
The count was simple: four hundred and twelve steps from the gatehouse to the old watchtower, a distance Elias Thorne had walked every shift for twenty years. He counted them not out of habit, but because the rhythm kept the hum in his teeth at bay, a low-frequency vibration that seemed to rise from the bedrock and settle directly into the marrow of his jaw. At forty-two, his knees ached with...
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