The Faded Quadrant
The ink on the parchment was still wet, glistening like a fresh wound in the dim light of the archive. I stared at the letter, my fingers trembling slightly as I held the quill, the nib hovering above the parchment as if it might pierce my skin. It was a simple message, a dispatch from the front lines, but to me, it was a verdict. "Tell them I am here," I whispered to the empty room, though I...
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