The Wistful Saga
The ink was already drying on the skin of her left hand, a dark, viscous stain that looked less like pigment and more like a bruise forming in real time, and Elara watched the Director’s face as he placed the heavy, leather-bound volume on the steel table between them, the smell of the room shifting from the sterile scent of floor wax to something metallic and old, like blood left too long in a...
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