The Distant Promise
The air in the Atrium of the High Court did not smell of stone or old parchment, as the histories had promised, but of ozone and wet iron, a metallic tang that coated the back of Thomas’s throat and tasted like the blood of a recently killed deer. He stood at the precipice of the Obsidian Steps, his small hands trembling not from the cold, which was a dry, biting thing that seeped through his...
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