The Wistful Witness
The ink is still wet on the page, a dark stain spreading like a bruise in the cheap paper. I am Elias Thorne, forty-two, and I am writing this from a cell in the border town of Kael, though the name of the place feels less like a location and more like a verdict. I do not know if anyone will read this. I do not care. I write to anchor myself, to keep the edges of my mind from fraying into the...
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