The Golden Visit
The fog in Oren does not clear; it merely thickens, a gray wool drawn tight around the city’s neck until the breath itself feels stolen. I am Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, a magistrate of the High Court, and I am writing this from a cell carved into the bedrock of the Citadel, where the air tastes of damp stone and old iron. For three months, I have sat in this darkness, waiting for the...
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