The Distant Wound
The rain fell upon the Obsidian Plaza not as water, but as a fine, gray silt that settled in the crevices of the marble and the hollows of the men’s eyes, a pervasive dust that tasted of iron and old ash. Julian Vane stood at the center of the execution circle, his hands bound by chains of woven silver that hummed with a low, discordant frequency, a sound that vibrated in the marrow of his...
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