The Wistful Throne
Could a man brew a cure from a thing that was already broken? Act I‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌‍‍‌‌‍​‌​‍⁠​​⁠‍​‍​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌‍⁠‌⁠​​‍‍‌‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​‌‌‍‍​‌‌​‌‍​⁠‍​‌‍ Otto Schwarz stood on the signal tower, his hands wrapped around the cold iron railing, watching the fog roll in from the valley floor. The mist was not merely weather; it was a physical weight, a grey wool blanket that smothered the alpine farms and the...
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