The Wistful Voyage
The list was pinned to the oak table with a rusted nail, the paper yellowed and soft at the edges from years of handling. You read it three times, the ink smudged where your thumb had pressed too hard. *Final Page. Due: Solstice. No interruptions.* It was a command, not a request, and you had obeyed it for the better part of a year. The scriptorium was cold, the kind of damp chill that settles...
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