The Wistful Atlas
The frost had not yet taken the castle walls, but it had already claimed the lining of your lungs, a cold, wet rattle that you tried to hide behind the rigid posture of a man who had spent twenty years policing the shadows of the Order of the Silver Veil. You stood in the corridor of the Inquisition Hall, the stone floor slick with condensation, waiting for the High Inquisitor to grant you the...
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