The Distant Clue
You stand in the center of the great hall, the air thick with the scent of damp wool and stale incense, your fingers trembling as they trace the cold, unyielding edge of the iron bar that runs the length of your wrist, a metallic tongue that tastes of rust and your own slow bleeding, and you look up, not at the high windows where the grey light of the city filters through the stained glass like...
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