The Wistful Cipher
The bell tower in Aethelgard did not ring for the hours, but for the dying. It was a low, resonant thrum that vibrated in the marrow, a sound that felt less like metal striking metal and more like the earth clearing its throat. You were the Keeper of the Chime, a title that carried no salary but a weight that pressed against your spine. Your hands, once slender and steady, were now knotted with...
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