The Distant Whispers
The ink on the parchment had not yet dried when I felt the first crack run through the glass of my conscience. It was a cold morning in the city of Oren, where the stones were worn smooth by centuries of feet and the air tasted of iron and old rain. I held the scroll in my hands, the parchment stiff and brittle, a map of the forbidden woods that I had spent three months deciphering. My fingers...
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