The Wistful Voyage
The ledger entry read: Debt of honor, settled in silence. Anca Grigoryan gripped the withered wisteria vine, its brittle stems cracking under the pressure of his knuckles, as he stood in the soot-choked rail yards of the guild town, where the air hung heavy with the scent of wet pine and the distant, rhythmic hammering of the kilns. He was thirty, a guard whose hands were mapped with scars from...
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