The Wistful Voyage
The parchment was thick, rough-hewn, and smelled of the ink that had soaked into the fibers like a bruise spreading under skin. Elias Thorne held it up to the guttering tallow candle, his fingers trembling not from cold but from the ache in his left shoulder, a joint that had never quite settled right since the winter campaign three years prior. The document was a decree from the Crown, signed...
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