The Wistful Cipher
Act I Bjorn Halvorsen had not slept in three days, and the light in the Imperial Crypt study was the dull, bruised grey of a sky that had forgotten how to clear. He sat at the heavy oak desk, the wood worn smooth by generations of hands that had once held power, now holding only dust. The wisteria vine, preserved in a jar of formaldehyde, sat to his left, its purple tendrils coiled tight like a...
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