The Distant Whispers

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2026-08-22 21:20:19 -

The obsidian shard was cold enough to burn, a jagged tooth of black glass that bit into the meat of my palm, and I held it up to the guttering tallow candle, watching the flame waver and die in the dark water of the stone. The cellar smelled of wet wool and old fear, a thick, cloying scent that clung to the back of the throat, and above me, through the floorboards, I could hear the shuffling of...

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