The Distant Joke

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2026-08-20 12:26:54 -

The Distant Joke

The rain does not fall so much as it is pressed down from a sky the color of bruised iron. You are in the mud, your boots sinking into the slurry of the lane outside the Bishop’s manor, and the weight of the book in your satchel is a physical ache against your spine. It is the *Codex of Silence*, a volume of liturgical texts so old the vellum has turned to brittle skin, and you have carried it...

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