The Pale Echo
The dampness in the archives of the Inquisition does not merely settle in the joints; it permeates the soul, a cold, wet rot that mirrors the decay of the institution you serve. You are Elias, thirty-two years old, a junior inquisitor whose hands tremble not from fear but from the sheer, crushing weight of the silence you have tried to break for three months. Your desire is singular and...
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