The Distant Wound
The silence in the Hall of Records is not an absence of sound, but a presence, heavy and suffocating, pressing against your eardrums like the deep water of a lake. You stand at the end of the long oak table, your hands resting on the polished wood, feeling the coolness of it seep into your palms, a grounding force against the heat rising in your chest. Across from you sits Magistrate Alaric,...
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