The Pale Echo
The soup was thick. It smelled of iron and thyme. I ate with a wooden spoon, the grain rough against my lips. Around me, the Great Hall hummed with the low, static charge of ten thousand souls. They were not people, not anymore. They were shapes of light, suspended in the amber haze of the room. They watched me. They did not speak. They simply watched, their eyes fixed on the bowl in my hands,...
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