The Wistful Witness
The journey to the keep of Lord Ashworth was not a trip in the modern sense, a mere transit from point A to point B, but rather a descending spiral into a labyrinth of stone and silence where the air grew thick with the scent of wet moss and impending judgment, and I, Marguerite, who had once believed myself a master of rhetoric and a wielder of the quill with a surgeon’s precision, found...
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