The Distant Whispers

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2026-08-20 21:49:32 -

The banquet hall did not smell of food, but of wet wool and old, dried blood, a scent that clung to the back of young Julian’s throat like a physical weight. He stood at the far end of the long, mahogany table, his small hands trembling as he adjusted the collar of his white shirt, the fabric crisp and unyielding against his neck. The room was a cavern of shadows, lit only by the sputtering,...

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