The Wistful Voyage

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2026-08-23 17:44:09 -

The ink was three days old. It sat in the stone basin on the desk, thick and black as oil, refusing to dry. Elara counted the drops that fell from her quill onto the parchment. One. Two. Three. The winter air in the scriptorium was damp, settling into the joints of her fingers, making the skin tight and cold. She was thirty-two, and her hands were already stiff with the ache that came before...

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