The Wistful Skyline
The dispatch was a single sheet of heavy, cream-colored parchment, folded into a square no larger than a playing card, and it felt cold and slick in your hands, as if it had been dipped in oil. You held it up to the guttering tallow candle in the northern spire of Kael, the light casting long, trembling shadows against the rough-hewn stone walls that you had scrubbed and polished for six years,...
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