The Faded Frontier
The air in the Chamber of Whispers did not smell of dust or rot, as one might expect of a room buried beneath the foundations of a kingdom that had ceased to exist three centuries ago, but rather of wet earth and the sharp, metallic tang of ozone. Margaret Holloway sat on a stone bench that had been carved from the living rock of the hillside, her posture rigid, her hands clasped tightly in her...
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