The Distant Joke

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2026-08-20 22:10:26 -

The Distant Joke

The air in the Hall of Whispers smelled of damp wool and old iron. It was a cold smell, the kind that settled in the lungs and refused to leave. Silas sat alone in the corner of the refectory. His hands were folded on the table. They were large hands, rough as river stone, but they trembled slightly. On the table before him lay a small clay bowl. Inside, a white paste swirled slowly, like milk...

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