The Wistful Silence
The stone floor of the interrogation chamber is cold enough to seep through the soles of your boots, a damp chill that settles into your knees and stays there. You are Elias Thorne, senior magistrate of Aethelgard, and you have waited for six hours for the prisoner to speak, but the man in the iron chair remains a statue of flesh and bone, his eyes fixed on a point just above your shoulder. The...
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