The Wistful Letter
The parchment is heavy, thick as the old oak boards of the throne room floor, and the ink is blacker than the smoke that currently fills the air. You hold the quill in your right hand, the fingers trembling not from cold, but from the sheer, crushing weight of the silence that has settled over the Great Hall of Ashworth Castle. It is the night of the Feast of Whispers, a tradition older than...
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