The Pale Verdict
The bell rang. Once. Sharp. It cut the air like a wire. I packed my tools. The chisels. The mallets. The hammers. They were heavy. They were cold. I left them on the bench. I did not look back. The workshop was dark. Dust motes danced in the single beam of light. They spun. They died. I walked out. My master, old Silas, stood by the door. He did not move. His face was a mask. Stone. Grey. He...
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