The Distant Whispers

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2026-08-22 15:14:52 -

The grain is rotting, Elias." Magistrate Thorne did not look up from the ledger he was balancing, his quill scratching a dry, rhythmic scratch against the parchment. The smell of the magistrate’s office was the smell of old varnish and dried ink, a stifling scent that seemed to press against the inside of my skull. I stood in the doorway, my hands trembling so violently that I could barely keep...

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