The Pale Letter
The air in the Hall of Judgment is not merely stale but curdled, a thick, yellowed membrane of dust and old blood that coats the back of your throat and makes every breath a laborious act of swallowing iron filings. You stand in the center of the circular arena, a place that was once the beating heart of the city’s commerce but has been hollowed out by the slow, grinding erosion of a justice...
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