The Wistful Letter
The tray slips from your fingers, the porcelain shattering against the sterile, white tile of the kitchen floor. You are Elias, twelve years old, and the only sound in the High Council’s culinary wing is the sharp crack of your own failure. The air is cold, recycled, and smells faintly of ozone and old copper. Head Cook Vance stands before you, a gaunt figure in a pristine white coat, his eyes...
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