The Wistful Crossroads
The dream is always the same. You are standing in the Archive, the air thick with the scent of dry rot and old paper. Your left hand is missing. You look down at the stump of blackened bone where your fingers used to be, and the pain is a cold, sharp hook in your chest. You want the Iron Signet. You need it to prove your innocence to the High Council, to wash away the stain of the betrayal that...
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