The Wistful Letter

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2026-08-21 16:01:21 -

The candle smoke coiled in the air, thick and sweet, a gray serpent winding through the vaulted ceiling of the chapel. I sat at the long oak table, my hands folded, waiting. The feast was a farce. The silver platters held only cold ash and stale bread, the goblets empty save for a dark, viscous residue that smelled of iron and rot. Around me, the other guards sat in rigid silence, their faces...

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