The Wistful Grid
The document is forged, Elias, and you know it. The Minister’s voice was not loud, yet it carried the weight of a hammer striking an anvil, vibrating in the hollow of my chest where the pain was already beginning to bloom. I stood before the tribunal in the Hall of Whispers, the light from the high windows cutting sharp, pale slivers across the stone floor, illuminating the dust motes that...
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