The Wistful Witness
"Did you hear the stones weeping?" The question hung in the air, thick and cloying, like the scent of wet limestone and old dust that permeated the corridors of the Citadel of Aethelgard. Elara looked up from the ledger she was repairing, her fingers stained with the indigo ink that marked the histories of the forgotten. She did not look immediately at the speaker, but kept her eyes fixed on...
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