The Wistful Letter
The dream began not with a vision but with a weight, a crushing, suffocating density of the air that pressed against the lungs of Sir Elias Thorne as he lay suspended in the darkness of his carriage, the wheels grinding over the uneven, muddy tracks of the northern highlands where the boundary of the kingdom dissolved into a mist that tasted of iron and old rain. He was a man carved from the...
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