The Wistful Atlas
The parchment was cold against Aldric’s palm, the ink still wet, a black stain spreading like a bruise. "Denied," Chancellor Vane said, not looking up from his ledger. "The Crown requires a debt of honor before it grants a pardon. Your lineage is a stain, Sir Aldric. A stain does not wash out." Aldric stood in the center of the chamber, the stone floor biting through his boots. The air here...
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