The Faded Frequency

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2026-08-23 02:33:27 -

The ink in the pot is dry, a cracked brown crust that smells of iron and old blood, and I dip my quill into it with a trembling hand, the nib scratching against the parchment with a sound like a fingernail on a slate. It is the third of November, in the year of our Lord 1347, and I am writing this from the cold stone floor of my cell in the High Court of Aethelgard, though I do not know if the...

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