The Wistful Silence
The rotunda of the Palace of Echoes was not quiet, as you might expect of a place built for silence; it was a cacophony of low, thrumming vibrations that seemed to rise from the stone floor and settle directly into the marrow of your bones. You stood there, Elias Thorne, forty-five years old and hollowed out by a hunger that had nothing to do with food, clutching a leather-bound ledger so...
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