The Faded Sutra
The lock was hot under your fingers. You twisted it, the metal biting into your palm, and the door to the Hall of Whispers swung open with a groan that sounded like a dying man clearing his throat. You ran. Your lungs burned, a sharp, acidic pain that matched the rhythm of your boots on the stone floor. You were chasing the Sutra Thief. You knew this man. You had seen him in the mirrors of the...
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