The Pale Dance
The ink on the seal had begun to flake, a dry, brown scab that crumbled under the tip of my quill. I held the parchment steady, the wax cold and brittle against my thumb, the weight of it a familiar anchor in the shifting currents of the morning air. Outside the high, narrow windows of the Chancery, the autumn rain lashed against the stone, a relentless, gray drumbeat that seemed to synchronize...
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