The Wistful Skyline
The seal of the Crown sat heavy in my left hand, a disc of hammered silver so cold it seemed to leech the warmth from my palm, while the ink on the parchment beneath my right hand remained wet and trembling, a dark, viscous mirror reflecting not the room, but the hollow space where my honor used to reside. I was Thomas Ashworth, a man who had spent forty years drawing the line between order and...
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