The Wistful Voyage
The ink on the parchment does not dry, it bleeds, a black weeping that spreads across the vellum like a bruise under the skin of the world, and you sit in the obsidian chamber of the High Inquisitor’s tribunal, your wrists bound not by rope but by the sheer, crushing weight of the silence that has gathered around you, a silence so dense it possesses a physical texture, a velvet thickness that...
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