The Wistful Letter
The collapse of the east wing did not begin with a crack, but with a sound like a heavy velvet curtain being drawn across the mouth of the world, a muffled, suffocating sigh that preceded the roar of falling stone. Elias Thorne stood in the center of the Grand Atrium, his uniform immaculate, the silver thread of his rank catching the dust motes that danced in the dying light, and he felt the...
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