The Wistful Show
The cold bit into your bones not from the wind, but from the weight of the debt you carried in your blood, a debt owed to the High Chancellor for the life you had not been permitted to take. You were Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, a court seer whose eyes had been burned by the light of Aethelgard, bound by a contract signed in ink that smelled of iron and old graves. You wanted only to find...
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