The Distant Wound

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2026-08-19 09:40:57 -

The Distant Wound

The bread is stale. You know it is stale because it cracks under your thumb, releasing a dry, dusty sigh that smells of old flour and silence. You sit in the high chair of the Hall, the wood cold against your hips. The air here is thin. It tastes of coal smoke and polished stone. Below you, the great hall stretches out, a cavern of gray light where the shadows do not move. They wait. They are...

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