The Distant Whispers

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2026-08-21 09:35:35 -

The river was not a river. It was a vein. I told myself this as I walked the frozen bank, my boots crunching on the ice that sang under my weight. The year was 1140, or perhaps 1141. Time was a loose thing in the Valley of Ashes, kept only by the tides and the slow, grinding decay of the world. I was the Inquisitor. My title sounded heavy, like a stone dropped into a well, but I carried it...

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