The Wistful Skyline
The bell tolled not for the hour, but for the breaking of the seal. It was a sound that defied the physics of the iron tower, a low, resonant thrum that vibrated in the marrow of Elias Thorne’s bones. He stood in the center of the scriptorium, the air thick with the scent of stale parchment and the metallic tang of fear. Around him, the other scribes huddled, their faces pale as the vellum they...
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