The Wistful Witness

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2026-08-24 12:23:33 -

The ink on the parchment was still wet when Lord Alistair mounted his horse, the leather of the saddle creaking under the weight of a man who had not slept in three days. I stood at the gate of the manor, the Obsidian Lens cold against my palm, its surface reflecting not the autumn light but a deep, churning void that seemed to pull at the edges of my vision. He did not look back, for he knew...

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