The Faded River
The air in the undercroft tasted of wet chalk and old, cured blood, a flavor that coated the back of your tongue with a gritty, metallic persistence that no amount of spitting could dislodge. You stood before the table, your fingers trembling not from the cold that seeped through the floorstones but from the sheer, crushing weight of the knowledge you had spent three years trying to bury...
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