The Wistful Letter
The rain lashed against the iron-framed windows of the carriage, a relentless, rhythmic hammering that turned the night into a blurred smear of charcoal and slate. You sat in the corner, your spine rigid against the velvet upholstery, your hands resting on the cold steel of the sword hilt that protruded from the leather sheath across your chest. The weapon was a relic, a thing of heavy, brutal...
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