The Wistful Witness
The glass vial sat in the center of the obsidian table, a slender finger of amber liquid catching the dim light of the throne room. It was the only thing in the vast, cavernous hall that did not seem to breathe with the heavy, ancient silence of the court. Elara held it with a grip that trembled, her knuckles white against the delicate glass. She was the Royal Archivist, a title that had once...
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