The Distant Wound
The iron taste of the air hangs heavy in your throat, a metallic film that coats the back of your teeth and settles into the crevices of your jaw. You are standing in the Hall of Whispers, a cavernous vault carved from the living rock of the northern peaks, where the ceiling is lost in a mist that smells of ozone and old blood. Here, in this place that exists between the cracks of time, you are...
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