The Wistful Letter

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2026-08-19 01:27:34 -

The ink was wet. It glistened like a wound on the parchment, black and viscous, smelling of iron and burnt honey. I held the quill, my hand trembling not from cold, though the air in the tower was bitter, but from the sheer weight of the words I had just scrawled. They were not my words. They were not my will. They were the script of a hunger that had lived in the marrow of my bones for a...

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