The Wistful Show
You stand before the iron gate of the Inquisitorial Hall, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and the metallic tang of old fear, and you wonder if the ink still stains your fingers from the copy you made last night, the one that does not exist, the one that will save you or damn you depending on which side of the ledger the warden decides to place your name. Your name is Thomas Bradshaw,...
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