The Wistful Witness
The Inquisitor’s voice cut through the damp silence of the cellar like a blade through wet wool. “Elias.” It was not a question, nor a request, but a summons that carried the weight of the stone walls above them. The scribe did not look up from the parchment. His hands, stained black to the wrist, moved with a tremor that was not from fear but from the sheer physical exhaustion of holding a...
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