The Pale Garden
The frost had settled upon the high windows of the Inquisition chamber like a fine, grey powder, blurring the world outside into a shapeless, mournful smear of white, and I sat in the heavy oak chair, my hands resting on the cold stone of the armrests, feeling the slow, grinding erosion of my own vitality as I waited for the boy to be brought in, knowing that every second that ticked away on...
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