The Distant Wound

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2026-08-21 17:23:30 -

The Distant Wound

The air in the Hall of Extraction tasted of copper and dried lavender, a scent that had long since replaced the smell of bread in Arthur Penhaligon’s lungs. He stood before the Great Vats, those towering cylinders of polished brass and weeping glass, where the collective hunger of the city was distilled into a single, viscous substance. Around him, the other scribes and tasters moved with the...

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