The Distant Wound

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2026-08-21 16:01:22 -

The Distant Wound

The feast was loud. It was too loud. Candles burned low in the silver holders, dripping wax onto the tablecloth like slow, golden blood. The room smelled of roasted lamb, rosemary, and the sharp, metallic tang of old fear. Elias sat at the far end of the long oak table. He wore black. His hands were still. They were always still. He was a scholar of the architecture of souls, a man who mapped...

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