The Wistful Throne
Ernestina Talamantes was on her knees, scrubbing the grime from the brass fittings of the command desk, when the floor bucked. Her hands, raw and reddened from the lye, slipped on the metal, and the shock of the impact traveled up her arms, stopping her heart for a beat before the second tremor hit. The dust in the barrack room, thick enough to taste, swirled into a brown cloud that choked the...
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