The Wistful Cipher
The tea had gone cold in the porcelain cup, a stagnant pool reflecting the dusty light of the library, but Elara did not drink it; she simply held the vessel in her hands, feeling the residual warmth seep into her skin like a promise that would never be kept. She was sitting in the corner of the reading room, a space that smelled of decaying paper and the faint, metallic tang of old blood,...
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