The Wistful Saga
The ink on the ledger is still wet when you first see it, a dark smear that looks less like a record of trade and more like a wound that has refused to close. You are standing in the back of the counting house, the air thick with the smell of beeswax and old parchment, and the light from the single tallow candle is failing, turning the room into a grey shadow. Your hands are trembling, not from...
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