The Wistful Show
The High Spire does not merely stand in the center of the city; it breathes, a slow, rhythmic expansion of living stone that expands and contracts with the collective guilt of those who dwell in its shadow, a sensation I have learned to feel in my teeth and the base of my skull since I took up my post as a scribe three years ago. I am Elara, thirty-two years old, and my hands are stained...
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