The Wistful Dinner
The ink is frozen again, Elias. You stare at the tip of your fountain pen, the black liquid congealed into a hard, glassy plug that refuses to flow. The air in the Duke’s private study is not merely cold; it is heavy, a physical weight pressing against your shoulders, settling into the marrow of your bones. You are forty-two years old, a senior archivist in the Ministry of Antiquities, and you...
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