The Wistful Letter
The wax seal, red as a fresh clot, cracks under the thumb of Elias Thorne. He presses it flat, the tallow soft and yielding, sealing the confession he has written in the dark. Outside, the rain hammers the slate roof of the keep at Dunbar, a relentless drumming that drowns out the moans of the dying. It is the year of our Lord 1347, and the air in the armory tastes of iron and rot. Elias is...
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