The Wistful Ashes
The ink on the nib is black, but it tastes of iron and old rain. You are Elara, thirty-two, and your hand is steady because if it shakes, the words will fade. The Ashen Citadel hums beneath your feet, a vibration that has settled into the marrow of your bones over twelve years of service. You are in the nursery, the door barred with a heavy iron pin, and the light from the single oil lamp casts...
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