The Wistful Voyage
You are not a prisoner. You are a guest. The distinction matters, or so you tell yourself while the damp seeps into your bones. The palace is old. It is not a castle, not in the storybook sense. It is a sprawling estate of gray stone and glass, built on a cliff that overlooks a sea that does not recede. It never recedes. The water is black and thick. It smells of iron and rot. You are the...
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