The Wistful Saga
The fog in the courtyard does not lift. It settles, thick and grey, against the stone walls of the Duke’s estate, a permanent shroud that smells of damp wool and old iron. You are Elias, twelve years old, a page in the silent service of Lord Ashworth, and your hands are perpetually stained with soil. You want to keep the wisteria alive. It is a vast, ancient thing, its vines strangling the...
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