The Wistful Silence
The carriage wheels bit into the mud of the King’s Road with a rhythmic, grinding persistence that seemed to mark out the very pulse of the earth beneath Elara’s skirts, a steady thumping against her temples as she sat hunched in the corner of the hired cart, her hands clasped so tightly around the hem of her woolen cloak that the knuckles turned white and the fabric tore at the seams, yet she...
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