The Pale Letter
The frost has not yet taken the stone of the antechamber, but your breath hangs in the air like a ghost refusing to leave, and in your satchel, the Pale Letter lies folded, dry as bone, waiting for the lie that will make it bleed. You are Elias, a court scribe of forty years, a man who has spent his life bending ink to the will of kings, and now you stand before the Chancellor, a man whose...
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