The Wistful Saga
Act I Ruth Sturgis remembered the weight of the iron latch before she remembered the cold, a specific, grinding heaviness that had lived in her shoulders for three years of service at the old manor, now a crumbling monastery of stone and debt. She stood alone in the outer courtyard, the frost biting through the soles of her boots, watching the late beans in the garden die under a white crust...
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