The Distant Wound

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2026-08-22 00:02:13 -

The Distant Wound

The nutrient paste was grey and thick, smelling of iron and stale water. Silas Vane stood in the narrow corridor of the State Infirmary, the sterile white tiles humming under his heavy boots. He was forty years old, a warden of the third tier, and his hands were steady as they lifted the ration cup from the dispenser. In the adjacent cell, behind bars of polished steel, his wife Elara lay in a...

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