The Wistful Crossroads

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2026-08-23 10:40:35 -

The dampness in the Royal Archives did not smell of mold, as damp things usually do, but of old copper and dried blood, a scent that had settled into my pores so deeply that I no longer distinguished it from my own skin. I sat alone in the sub-basement, the only light a single tallow candle that sputtered against the heavy, velvet darkness, my quill moving in a steady, rhythmic scratch across...

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