The Wistful Crossroads
The pen was heavy, the ink black, and the silence in the corridor was so thick it felt like a physical weight pressing against Elias Thorne’s eardrums. He stood with his back against the rusted bulkhead of the *Ironclad*, the decommissioned river barge that now served as a mobile tribunal, while the steam from the boiler room hissed through the floor grates in short, sharp bursts. "You’re...
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