The Wistful Asylum
The gavel struck the oak table with a sound like a bone snapping, and Elara Vance stood before the High Council, her spine rigid against the draft that swept through the rotunda. She was thirty-two years old, an archivist of the city’s memory, and she was not there to plead but to demand the release of her husband, Thomas, who had been confined to the Asylum for three months. The Council, a...
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