The Distant Joke
The soup is too hot. You stir the spoon in a slow, circular motion, watching the steam rise in a thin, white ribbon that dissolves into the cold air of the dining room. The broth is a deep, murky brown, thick with roots and spices that smell of wet earth and decay. Around you, the other scholars of the Institute sit in their high-backed chairs, their faces illuminated by the flicker of the...
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