The Faded Paradox
The bell tower stands against the grey sky, a jagged tooth in the jaw of the hill. You sit in the stone chair, the wood cold through your wool skirt. The dust motes dance in the single shaft of light that cuts through the high window. It is a narrow room. The air smells of old paper and damp wool. You are waiting for the Inquisitor. You have come to tell him the truth. Or at least, the version...
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