The Distant Wound
The ink had dried for three days, a black crust forming on the nib of the quill that Kael held in his left hand, while his right hand trembled against the cold, iron-rimmed desk of the Third Order archive, counting the remaining hours before the Inquisitor’s purge began: nine hours until dawn, nine hours until the fires would consume the library’s deepest shelves, and seven hours until his...
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