The Wistful Skyline
The iron gate of the Palace of Whispers did not lock; it simply remembered who was not allowed to pass, and in that moment, Elara’s hand, slick with the sweat of her own terror, found the cold brass of the ring pinned to the breast of her tunic. It was a heavy thing, wrought from the same dark metal as the palace walls, shaped like a closed eye that had seen too much. She had worn it for three...
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