The Wistful Letter

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2026-08-20 01:40:52 -

The rain fell in sheets of grey iron against the high, arched windows of the Abbey. It was a sound like static, a ceaseless, hissing void that filled the corridors. I walked the ramparts, my boots heavy on the wet stone. My sword, a blade of folded steel named *Sorrow’s Edge*, hung at my hip. It was not a weapon of war. It was a tool of erasure. I sought the ink. The ink was the enemy. It...

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