The Faded Frequency
The letter was wet. Not from rain, though the sky above the citadel had wept for three days straight. It was wet from sweat, or maybe fear, or perhaps the sheer, crushing weight of the ink itself. I held it in my left hand, the hand that had stopped shaking. The right hand held the quill. The quill was broken. It had snapped against the glass. The glass was cracked now. A spiderweb of fractures...
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