The Wistful Petal
Elara. The name was spoken by the Abbot, a low rumble that cut through the clatter of silverware and the heavy, cloying scent of roasted goose and beeswax candles, and you looked up from your plate to find his gaze fixed on you with a precision that felt less like attention and more like the calibration of a surgical instrument, a weight pressing against the back of your skull that made your...
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