The Faded Bouquet
The carriage jolts over the cobblestones of the lower town, and you feel the vibration travel up through the leather seat, into your spine, a dull, rhythmic ache that mirrors the pounding in your temples. You are dressed in the black and silver of the Inquisitor’s Guard, the fabric stiff with the damp chill of the autumn evening, but you are no longer a guard. You are a supplicant, carrying a...
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