The Golden Cellar
The magistrate stood before the obsidian gate, his hand resting on the hilt of a sword that had not seen blood in a century, and I watched him with the hollow, aching clarity of a man who has finally stopped fighting the current and begun to drown in it. "You are to confess," he said, his voice carrying the weight of stone and the cold, unyielding logic of a system that had no room for mercy,...
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