The Distant Summer

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2026-08-19 07:47:45 -

The fog rolls in from the moors, thick and cold, tasting of iron and old rain. You are here, in the Hall of Whispers, where the stones breathe. You tell yourself you are a scholar, a keeper of the ledger, but your hands shake as you hold the quill. The ink is black as a bruise. You are here to record the debt. The debt is heavy. It sits on your chest like a stone. You are hungry. Your stomach...

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