The Pale Banner
Arthur. The name hung in the damp air of the archive, sharp and cold. Arthur flinched, his fingers tightening around the spine of a ledger. He was thirty years old, though the work had aged him into something brittle and grey. His want was simple, a quiet hunger that had eaten through his ambitions: to remain. To be the man who filed, who bound, who erased the stains of history so the Crown...
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