The Wistful Petal
In your right hand, you hold a piece of paper so light it seems to weigh nothing, yet it bends your fingers with the gravity of a forged order that promises you the Directorship of the Ministry of Internal Affairs. The ink is wet, still glistening under the gaslight, and it smells faintly of iron and turpentine, a scent that clings to your skin like the dust of the street outside. You are Elara...
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