The Distant Whispers
The low, thrumming hum that Elias Thorne had carried in his teeth for twenty years did not fade with the dawn; it only changed pitch, shifting from a sub-bass growl to a high, crystalline whine that vibrated against the inside of his skull like a struck tuning fork. He sat at his oak desk in the archives of the Magistrate’s Hall, the air thick with the scent of decaying vellum and the damp...
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