The Wistful Letter
The ink was still wet. It shimmered on the heavy parchment, a black pool that seemed to breathe in the candlelight. Arthur stood before the mirror, his reflection staring back with a cold, static patience. The room was small, a single chamber in the old manor that had been his father’s, now his, now a tomb he occupied by lease. He was a man of letters, a scribe for the local magistrates, a...
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