The Wistful Ashes
The silence in the Hall of Whispers was not an absence of sound but a presence, a heavy, velvet weight that pressed against your eardrums and settled into the marrow of your bones, a suffocating embrace that made the air taste of iron and old dust. You stood alone in the center of the circular room, the floor beneath your feet a mosaic of black marble and white stone, a pattern that seemed to...
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