The Wistful Witness
The winter air in the Hall of Records was not cold, but it was thick, a physical weight that pressed against the back of Elara’s neck as she sorted the ledgers. She was thirty-two, a mid-level archivist in the Imperial Court, a position that afforded her little more than the dignity of silence and the privilege of seeing everything. Her fingers, stained with the rust-colored ink of the old...
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