The Pale Meridian
The great hall of the Citadel of St. Jude is a mouth that has forgotten how to swallow, a cavernous expanse of polished obsidian and bone where the air hangs thick with the scent of dried lavender and the metallic tang of old blood, and you stand in the center of it, a figure carved from the same dark stone as the pillars that flank you, your hands bound not by rope but by the sheer, crushing...
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