The Pale Verdict
The dream did not come as a vision of fire or blood, but as a sensation of cold iron against the skin, a weight so familiar it felt like a second skeleton. In the haze of my sleep, I saw the collar of my tunic, the wool stiff and dark with age, not because it was dirty, but because it had absorbed the very essence of my shame. I woke with the taste of rust on my tongue, the air of the city...
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