The Distant Affair
The air in the Hall of Records did not smell of dust, as one might expect, but of wet stone and the sharp, metallic tang of ink that had long since dried into the parchment. It was a place where time did not pass so much as it accumulated, settling in layers like silt on the bottom of a deep, stagnant pool. Here, in the shadowed alcoves of the Great Library of Aethelgard, Silas Vane had spent...
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