The Distant Wound
The ink on the page did not dry; it bled. Elias Thorne sat in the high-backed chair of the Archive’s deepest vault, his fingers trembling not from cold, but from the sheer, oppressive weight of the text before him. The room was a cathedral of dust and silence, a Victorian reliquary where the air hung thick with the scent of decaying paper and ozone. Outside, the gas lamps of the city flickered...
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