The Pale Verdict
The air in the Great Hall did not smell of rot, as one might expect in a place where the walls wept condensation and the floor was slick with the residue of centuries, but of ozone and old iron, a metallic tang that coated the back of the tongue. Elara Vance stood at the base of the Obsidian Stair, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts that misted in the cold draft rising from the crypts...
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