The Wistful Voyage
The autumn of 1893 smelled of wet stone and impending frost. Silas Vane stood on the palace balcony, his knuckles white around a shard of obsidian, its edge worn smooth by years of anxious handling. Below, the King’s carriage rattled away toward the border, the wheels kicking up clouds of dust that hung in the air like suspended ash. Silas did not watch the vehicle; he watched the reflection in...
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