The Distant Whispers

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2026-08-25 09:37:32 -

The ink is cold. It sits in the well like a pool of black water, reflecting the candlelight in a way that makes you think of deep, still lakes. Your left hand hovers over the parchment. It trembles. The tremor is not in the muscle, but in the bone, a vibration that starts in the marrow and works its way out to the fingertips. You are Elias. You are forty-two years old. You are the Royal Scribe....

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