The Pale Meridian
The ink was wet. It glistened on the parchment like a wound that would not close. Thomas Ashworth held his breath. His hands trembled, not from cold, but from the weight of the letters they had formed. He looked at the seal. Red wax. The crest of the Duke. It was perfect. It was final. He had spent three weeks on this document. Three weeks of silence in the high tower, where the wind screamed...
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