The Wistful Letter
The rain lashed against the high, narrow windows of the High Palace archives, a rhythmic percussion that did nothing to drown out the silence in Elias Thorne’s chest. He sat alone at a desk carved from pale oak, the surface scarred by decades of quills and ink, clutching a rusted iron key in his left hand. The key was cold, dead metal, a fact that terrified him more than the damp rot seeping...
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