The Wistful Saga
The air in the hall tasted of iron and stale beer. You stand at the edge of the crowd, your left hand resting on the small of your back. It is a heavy, familiar weight. Not a sword. Not a cane. Just the hollow ache of your spine, a bone that has been stripped of its grace. You are Dr. Arthur Penhaligon. You are a scholar of linguistics. You are thirty-two years old, and you feel eighty. The...
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