The Distant Metropolis
The iron key was cold in your hand, a weight that felt less like metal and more like a piece of frozen river ice, biting into the calluses of your palm as you stood before the heavy oak door of the High Spire. You had held this key for three days, ever since the Council had dismissed your plea for a formal inquiry into the disappearance of Archivist Silas, labeling him a deserter who had fled...
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