The Pale Fracture
The air in the Hall of Silences did not smell of dust, as one might expect of a place forgotten by time, but rather of crushed mint and stale copper, a scent that clung to the back of the throat like a persistent cough, signaling the presence of a sickness that was not yet named but was certainly there. Silas Vane sat alone on a bench carved from a single piece of pale, translucent stone, his...
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