The Wistful Atlas
The candlelight trembled on the silver, catching the edges of the crystal goblets as Elara stood at the head of the long oak table, her hands steady despite the trembling of the air around her. Thirty-two years old, she had spent the last five years in the damp cellar beneath the palace, distilling the sap of the Whispering Grain, a crop that grew only in absolute silence and withered instantly...
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