The Faded River
The pen stopped. It did not break, nor did it snap; it simply ceased to move, frozen in the air an inch above the parchment, the ink droplet suspended like a black bead of oil. Elias Thorne watched the clerk’s hand tremble, the knuckles white, the silence in the administrative hall of the Iron Ward thickening until it felt less like an absence of sound and more like a physical weight pressing...
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