The Wistful Cipher
The road to the High Court of Aethelgard was not a road at all, but a scar of crushed stone and mud that bit into the soles of Elara’s boots. She had walked for three days from the borderlands, her cloak heavy with rain and the dust of a world she had left behind. In her hand, wrapped in oilskin that had begun to rot at the edges, she carried the Cipher. It was a small, unassuming object: a...
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