The Wistful Silence

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2026-08-24 09:39:22 -

The ink in Elias’s satchel had dried into black crusts, mirroring the desiccated state of his own soul as he pushed through the thicket of brambles that lined the road out of Lyon. It was the year of our Lord 1347, and the air did not smell of the sweet rot of summer fruit, as it should have in July, but of copper and wet earth, a scent that clung to the back of the throat and refused to be...

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