The Distant Wound
The low hum that has plagued Ostra for three generations is not a sound you hear with your ears, but a pressure you feel in the teeth, a vibration that turns the air into a thick, grey sludge. You are Elias, forty-two years old, a stone-mason whose hands are permanently stained with the chalky dust of the Old Hall’s foundation, and you have only until the winter solstice to repair the central...
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