The Faded Frontier
The frost on the windowpanes of Lord Vane’s scriptorium was thick as a man’s palm, and I pressed my thumb against the ice, watching the condensation blur the city of Aethelgard into a watercolor of grey and gold. It was the year 1342, and I was twelve years old, though my hands looked older, stained with iron-gall ink and raw from the cold. I wanted the Sunstone to shine. I needed it to shine...
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