The Distant Clue

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2026-08-21 15:42:55 -

The Distant Clue

The feast was a wound. Candlelight bled into the vaulted stone. The air smelled of roasting boar, spiced wine, and the metallic tang of old blood. I sat at the low end of the long oak table. My hands were still. They were always still. The scribes of the Citadel did not shake. They did not weep. They recorded. I was the Chief Archivist. I was the mouth of the institution. I was its throat, cut...

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