The Faded River
The ink on the scroll was dry, black and absolute against the pale vellum, and it sat on the table before me like a small, dead bird. I did not touch it. My fingers, calloused from the hilt of a sword that had not seen battle in three years, hovered over the edge of the oak, trembling not with fear but with the weight of a silence that had been growing inside my chest for months. The room...
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