The Wistful Throne
I held the deed in my hands, the paper thin and brittle, smelling of damp rot and old ink. It was a list of debts, a catalogue of sins committed by Silas Vane over forty years of corrupt stewardship, and I had signed it, or thought I had, in the dream that had woken me with sweat cooling on my brow. The gate was cracking in the vision, a premonition of the trap, the boundary of the house...
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