The Pale Verdict
The air in the High Hall tastes of copper and stale incense, a thick, metallic tang that coats the back of your throat as you stand before the Obsidian Throne, your hands trembling not from fear but from the sheer, crushing weight of the years you have carried in your blood. You are Elias Thorne, Master Artificer of the Crown, a man whose fingers are stained permanently with the dust of stars...
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