The Wistful Cipher
The ink is still wet. It glistens on the parchment, a dark vein against the cream of the vellum, pulsing with a life that does not belong to the letter. You hold the quill steady, your hand a cage of rigid bone and intent. In this castle, silence is a weapon. It is heavy. It presses against the eardrums until they ring. You are the Warden. You are the shield. You are the eye that never blinks....
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