The Pale Letter
You are standing in the antechamber of the High Court, where the air is thick with the scent of beeswax and old parchment, a smell that has seeped into the very stone of the corridors until it is indistinguishable from the dust of centuries. Your uniform, pressed to a razor’s sharpness, feels less like protection and more like a coffin lid, rigid and suffocating, pressing against your ribs with...
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