The Wistful Silence
The dream was always the same, a viscous and recurring torment that left Silas Vane waking with the taste of copper on his tongue and the moon pressing against his eyelids like a bleeding eye. He was thirty years old, a scribe of the middle rank in the court of the Pale King, and he had spent the last decade polishing his skills to a razor’s edge, driven by a hunger that was less about survival...
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