The Wistful Silence
The fire in Krakow did not roar; it whispered, a dry, cracking sound that ate the timber of the university halls and the spines of the books within them, and you ran with the weight of your sister’s breath against your back, the heat searing the back of your neck while the cobblestones turned to slush under your boots. Elias, a scribe of thirty years who had never held a sword in his life,...
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