The Wistful Witness
The brass astrolabe sits in your hands, heavy as a wet stone, its intricate rings grinding against the calluses of your palms, a cold weight that anchors you to the earth even as the air above the cobblestones shivers with the heat of the coming fire. You are Maren, though the city calls you the Whisperer, a title earned not through eloquence but through the terrible, silent ability to hear the...
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