The Distant Whispers
The rain had been falling for three days, a steady, gray sheet that turned the cobblestones of the mill town into a slick, dark mirror. Inside the hall, however, the air was thick with smoke and the heavy, cloying scent of roasted lamb and cheap gin. It was the annual Harvest Gala, a celebration that had become less about the yield of the barley fields and more about the display of wealth that...
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