The Wistful Letter

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2026-08-18 02:35:14 -

The fog did not roll in; it was exhaled from the earth, a cold, wet breath that clung to the cobblestones of the old quarter like a shroud. In the high, windowless chamber of the Inquisitor’s Hall, the air tasted of iron and stale incense, a flavor that had seared itself into the back of Elias Thorne’s throat years ago. He sat upon a stool of rough-hewn oak, his hands bound not by rope, but by...

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