The Pale Bridge
"You have given me your voice, Elara." The King’s smile was a thin, predatory line, barely there, like a crack in the plaster of a wall that had settled too much. I stood before the high desk, my hands still trembling from the effort of holding the quill steady. The ink had turned black, not the usual iron-gall grey, but a deep, sucking void that seemed to pull the light from the room. I had...
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