The Wistful Silence
The wax seal on the letter is still warm, soft as a bruise, and you press your thumb into the center of it with a slow, deliberate weight, feeling the wax give way beneath your skin, a tactile confirmation that the order has arrived, that the machinery of the Court has moved while you were away, and the smell of tallow and old parchment rises from the creased edges, a scent that belongs to the...
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