The Wistful Saga
March 14, 1348. The ink is thick today, like blood from a vein that has been cut too deep. I am Elias, and I am forty-two years old, though the mirror in the corner of this tower room refuses to show me a face that looks like a man who has seen more than two decades. It shows a hollow. It shows the iron collar around my neck, the device that hums with a poison so slow it feels less like death...
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