The Wistful Cipher
The banquet hall of the City Archive smelled of damp wool and old paper, a scent that Elara Vance had inhaled for twelve years without ceasing to notice it. She stood near the heavy oak doors, her hand resting on the cold iron handle, watching the senior archivists toast to the longevity of the institution. The crystal goblets caught the gaslight, fracturing the glow into sharp, prismatic...
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