The Wistful Show
The bells of St. Jude’s tolled not for a wedding or a funeral, but for the arrival of the King’s tax collector, a sound that hung in the damp autumn air like a bruise. Elara stood at the window of the scriptorium, her fingers stained with oak gall ink, watching the carriage rattle over the cobblestones. She had come from the south, from a village that no longer existed, seeking the quiet of the...
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