The Wistful Skyline
The carriage wheels ground against the cobblestones of the Obsidian Court, a rhythmic grinding that matched the hollow ache in Margaret’s chest. She was thirty-two, a woman who had spent the last decade in the sterile, white-tiled offices of a pharmaceutical firm, yet here she stood at the threshold of a power that predated the industrial age, driven by a desperation that had calcified into...
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