The Distant Whispers

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2026-08-19 09:43:53 -

The soup was always served at the hour when the light in the Great Hall began to fail, a thick, dark broth of lentils and root vegetables that smelled of earth and rot, a scent that clung to the wool of my tunic and the skin of my arms long after the bowl was emptied. I sat at the lowest table, my knees drawn up to my chest, watching the steam rise in ghostly spirals before it dissipated into...

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