The Distant Clue
The rain against the windowpane of the tribunal hall did not sound like water but like the slow, grinding disintegration of sandstone, a granular erosion that matched the precise, technical decay of the seal you had carried in your breast pocket for seven years, a wax impression stamped with the double-headed eagle of the House of Vane, now brittle, cracked, and flaking away in your fingers as...
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