The Faded Attic
The rain lashed against the slate roof of the counting house like a thousand tiny, angry fists, a relentless percussion that matched the frantic drumming of my own heart as I watched the Guild Master, a man whose face was a map of every petty tyranny he had ever enforced, slide his heavy, wax-sealed letter across the oak table. It was not a demand for coin, nor a threat of imprisonment, which...
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