The Wistful Ashes
The parchment was damp, the ink bleeding slightly into the fiber, and Elias held it with hands that shook not from cold, though the air in the bridgehouse was sharp enough to bite, but from the sheer, crushing weight of the duty written in the chancery’s dry, official script. It was a pardon, or at least the paper claimed it was, a document that promised to unlock the iron door of the East Wing...
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