The Distant Clue
The feast at the Hall of Whispers had lasted for three days, a relentless cascade of roasted venison and fermented honey wine that seemed to seep into the very stones of the ancient citadel. The air was thick with the scent of burning pine and the metallic tang of old blood, a perfume that clung to the skin of every guest, binding them to the moment in a suffocating embrace. Silas Thorne sat at...
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