The Golden Song
The air in the Grand Hall of the Ministry of Internal Affairs was not merely cold; it was a physical weight, a pressurized gas that settled into the lungs and refused to be exhaled. You stood at the edge of the obsidian floor, your shoes silent, your posture rigid as a piece of furniture, while the High Chancellor, a man whose face had long since forgotten the geometry of humanity and replaced...
0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews