The Wistful Letter
The heavy iron key hung from Silas Vane’s wrist by a leather cord, its cold weight a familiar anchor against the pulse of his radial artery, a constant reminder of the forty years he had spent locking the doors of the Order’s stone prison. He stood before the High Inquisitor’s desk, the air in the chamber thick with the smell of damp limestone and the faint, metallic tang of old blood that...
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