The Wistful Witness
The rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a suspended grief that had forgotten how to touch the earth, wrapping the village of Oakhaven in a veil of grey mist that smelled of wet stone and old iron. In the center of the square stood the Hall of Verdicts, a structure of black basalt and white marble that had not changed since the days when the ancestors first carved the law into the bedrock....
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