The Wistful Show
The ink was dry, but the weight of it was not. "You have done well, Master Alder," the Duke said. His voice was a low rumble, like stones shifting in a riverbed. He did not look up from the parchment. He only turned the page, a slow, deliberate motion that seemed to consume the light in the room. "The seal is perfect." Alder nodded. He did not bow. Bows were for those who sought favor. Alder...
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