The Wistful Witness
The seal is a thing of bone and rust. You hold it in your left hand, the one that still remembers the weight of the sword hilt, though the hilt itself was buried three winters past beneath the flagstones of the hall. It is small, no larger than a walnut, carved from the antler of a stag that died in a storm. The engraving is deep, a spiral that tightens into a single point. It is the mark of...
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