The Pale Verdict
The wool of your collar itches, a persistent, dry scratch against the nape of your neck that you have ceased to notice, much like the weight of the expectations you carry. You are seated at a long oak table in the Great Hall of the Collegium, the wood dark and polished by centuries of elbows and ink-stained fingers. The air is thick with the scent of beeswax and old paper, a smell that has...
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