The Wistful Saga
The silence in the Hall of Records was not an absence of sound but a physical weight, a thick, stagnant air that tasted of dust and old paper, pressing against the eardrums of Elias Thorne until the sensation of his own pulse became a deafening, rhythmic thud that seemed to originate not in his chest but in the very walls of the stone structure. He stood at the center of the circular room, a...
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