The Faded Paradox
You wake in the cellar. The air is thick with the smell of damp stone and old blood. Your wrists ache. You are bound to a chair made of rough-hewn oak. Above you, a single candle flickers, casting long, dancing shadows against the walls. You try to speak. Your throat is dry. A voice comes from the darkness. It is close. Too close. "Is he waking?" The voice belongs to Thomas. You know him. He is...
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