The Pale Echo
The ink is still wet on the parchment, a black river spreading across the white vellum, and you are staring at it as if it were a wound that refuses to heal. You are the High Warden of the House of Alden, a title that once meant protection, now it means containment, and the containment is failing. The room is the solar of the old estate, high above the valley where the mist rolls in like a...
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