The Wistful Crossroads
The ink on my quill is still wet, trembling in the gutter of the page, as I record the date of the Winter Solstice Feast, a day that has arrived with the weight of a funeral shroud rather than the brightness of celebration. I am Elias Vane, Archivist of the Third Order, and for ten years I have held within the marrow of my bones a secret that threatens to unmake the very foundation of King...
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