The Pale Garden
The bell did not ring. That was the first wrongness, the silence that swallowed the morning air inside the High Hall of St. Jude’s, a sound so absolute it felt like a physical weight pressing against Emeric’s eardrums. He stood before the great oak desk, his fingers trembling not with cold, but with the terrifying, electric charge of an experiment about to reach critical mass. The dust motes in...
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