The Wistful Skyline
The velvet lining of the magistrate’s cuff, once a deep and resonant crimson that had absorbed the light of a thousand judicial pronouncements, now hung in the air like a torn flag, frayed and silent against the stone floor of the tribunal. It was not merely a piece of cloth, but the skin of the office itself, shed in a sudden, violent convulsion that left the arm beneath it bare, exposed, and...
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