The Distant Whispers

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2026-08-22 22:27:14 -

The air in the council chamber smelled of damp wool and stale coffee, a pungent reminder of the autumn rot creeping through the foundations of Oakhaven, and Elias Thorne stood before the dais with his hands clasped so tightly that his knuckles had turned the color of old bone. He was forty-two years old, a man whose face had been worn smooth by decades of listening to things that others could...

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