The Pale Meridian
You wake not with a gasp or a jolt of adrenaline, but with the slow, heavy realization that the iron gate of the Hall of Inquisitions is still closed, the massive bolts sliding home with a sound like a bone snapping in a quiet room, sealing you inside the stone belly of the institution that has eaten your name and ground your years into dust. The dream has been a long, grey corridor, endless...
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