The Wistful Voyage
The ink is already drying on the parchment when you finally look up, and the smell of it, that sharp, metallic scent of iron gall, hangs heavy in the air like a fog that refuses to lift, mixing with the damp rot of the cellar where you have been kept for three days, a prisoner not of the city guards but of the very silence that surrounds you, a silence so profound it seems to press against your...
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