The Faded Paradox
The hawk was dead. It lay in the center of the stone table, its feathers ruffled by a wind that had no source. Its eyes were open, fixed on a point above my head, judging me. I held it. My fingers were stained with dust and the faint, metallic scent of old blood. The room smelled of damp limestone and incense that had long since lost its meaning. I am a prisoner. This is the first thing you...
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