The Wistful Throne
Did you see it move? Sanne van Doorn stood at the end of the Rope Walk, number one hundred and twenty-six, the cold biting through his wool coat. The mill wheel groaned above him, a sound like a man clearing his throat after a long silence. He was thirty-two, a constable in Zwartwater, and his hand trembled around the hilt of his truncheon. The shadow was there. It did not walk; it slid, a cold...
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