The Wistful Skyline
The ink was wet when the whisper began, a dry sound like the rustling of dead leaves against stone, and Elias did not look up from the parchment, for to look up was to admit that the room was no longer empty. He was forty years old, his joints stiff with the damp chill of the castle keep, and he had spent twenty years shaping the words of the Duke until they fit the shape of the law, but...
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