The Wistful Voyage
The chalk snapped in Elara’s hand, a sharp, brittle sound that cut through the heavy, sulfurous air of the Grand Library like a bone breaking in a quiet room, and she stood there, the jagged white shard still clutched in her sweating palm, staring at the blackboard where her own handwriting had begun to blur, the letters of her thesis on the moral architecture of the pre-war guilds dissolving...
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