The Wistful Skyline
The ink was cold, a thick black sludge that smelled of iron and rot, and Elias pressed his quill against the parchment with a force that felt less like writing and more like a prayer for his own hands to stop shaking. It was the year of our Lord 1342, and the autumn deadline for the Royal Chronicle loomed over the tower room like a storm front, a darkening of the sky that promised only rain and...
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