The Wistful Throne
The parchment lay heavy on the oak desk, its surface rough as dried skin, waiting for the weight of the quill. Elara adjusted the inkhorn, the glass cool against her thumb, and listened to the silence of the scriptorium, a silence that felt less like absence and more like a held breath. The debt was simple arithmetic: three hundred silver marks, owed to the Crown for grain that had rotted in...
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