The Distant Clue
The iron gates shudder. Then they break. Not with a bang. With a sigh. A long, metallic exhalation that tastes of rust and old blood in your mouth. You do not look up. You do not look at the sky, or the torches, or the faces of the men who stand behind the broken bars. You look at your hands. They are trembling. Not from fear. From cold. From the sheer, crushing weight of the silence that...
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