The Distant Temple
You press the brass button on the door of the Ministry of Internal Order, your thumb lingering on the cold metal as if seeking warmth that is not there. The bell inside gives a dull, muffled thud, swallowed by the heavy oak and the thick, stagnant air that smells of damp wool and old ink. You are Elias, thirty-two, a senior auditor whose hands have spent the last decade balancing the ledgers of...
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