The Wistful Silence
The iron key was cold in Elias’s palm, a heavy, unyielding thing that felt less like a tool and more like a verdict. He stood before the cell door, the stone of the keep damp and slick with condensation, the air thick with the scent of rot and wet earth. "Execute him," Elias said, his voice low and steady, cutting through the silence of the corridor. "The charge is blasphemy. The evidence is...
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