The Distant Temple

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2026-08-22 15:05:15 -

Three hours. That is how long I have counted the stitches in my glove. Twenty-four on the left thumb, twelve on the index, a ragged tear along the palm that weeps salt water and cold. I am Silas, warden of the northern ice, and I carry a letter sealed in wax the color of a bruised plum. It is the last word of my brother, Thomas, sent before the fever took him in the garrison at Oakhaven. I must...

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