The Distant Ghost
The great hall of the Citadel of St. Jude did not merely hold the air; it compressed it, a vast lung of stone and timber that heaved with the weight of three centuries of unbroken vigil. It was a place where shadows had texture, where the silence between words was a physical thing, dense and cold as the ironwork that lined the walls. Here, the air smelled of old beeswax, damp wool, and the...
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