The Wistful Petal
The Chancellor’s quill scratches against the parchment, a sound like a bone snapping in the quiet hall. You hold your breath, your hand trembling around the edge of the scroll, the ink already beginning to seep into the pores of your wrist. It is cold, a biting chill that spreads faster than heat, tracing the veins of your forearm in lines of black script. You are Elias, a scribe of the High...
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