The Distant Promise
The letter lay flat on the oak desk, its weight negligible, yet it pressed against my palm with the density of a lead coin. The ink was not black, but a deep, cloying brown that smelled of wet loam and the specific, metallic tang of old blood, and it bore a signature I had not seen in six years: Julian. I am Elias Thorne, a scribe of thirty-two years, and I had spent the last half-decade...
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