The Wistful Crossroads
The dream began not with light, but with the weight of a stone door grinding against its granite frame, a sound that vibrated in the marrow of Elara’s bones and tasted of copper and old rain. She stood in the Hall of Whispers, a place that had no business existing in the waking world, yet which she had known since the first breath she took in the damp cellar of the Ashworth estate. The...
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