The Wistful Witness

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2026-08-18 15:02:11 -

The iron gate was cold, a slab of frozen midnight pressed against the stone of the keep, and I sat with my back against it, feeling the chill seep into the marrow of my spine, that ancient, hollow place where the soul is kept in winter. My hands were bound by ropes of twisted hemp, coarse and scratching at the wrists, binding my hands together in a posture of surrender that felt less like...

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