The Faded Quadrant

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2026-08-22 04:43:25 -

The dream began, as it always did, with the smell of wet wool and the taste of copper on the tongue. Elias Wakefield was running through a field that did not exist, the grass tall and black against a sky that had no stars. His hands were bound, not by rope, but by a thick, caked mud that seemed to grow from his own skin, weighing his arms down until his fingers could barely curl. He was looking...

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