The Faded Sutra
The ink is still wet when the shadow of the quill stretches across the parchment, longer than the hand that holds it, and I know I am writing this because the alternative is silence, and silence in this palace is a death sentence for the soul. I am Elias Thorne, Captain of the Royal Guard, and I am writing to you, Martha, from the cold stone of my cell, where the air tastes of iron and old...
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