The Faded Frontier

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2026-08-18 13:33:02 -

The air in the Hall of Records smells of dried lavender and old dust, a scent that clings to the back of your throat like a bad taste. You sit at a desk made of oak so dark it looks like a bruise, your hands resting flat on the surface, the wood cold and smooth against your palms. Before you lies a ledger, its pages yellowed and brittle, filled with the cramped, looping script of scribes who...

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