The Pale Tower
The seal wax was cold in my hand, a grey lump of clay that had hardened in the carriage draft. I held it up to the light, checking for cracks, my thumb pressing into the soft residue of the King’s crest. It was a small, heavy thing, lighter than the duty it carried, yet it felt as if it contained the weight of the entire winter. I was Elara, a scribe of the high court, and I had been tasked...
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