The Distant Wound
The rain lashed against the high, soundproofed windows of the Court of Records, a rhythmic drumming that Elias Thorne had long since learned to tune out in favor of the more satisfying sound of his own voice, which was currently carving a path through the bureaucratic fog with the precision of a scalpel. He stood before the High Minister, a figure whose face was obscured by a sleek, featureless...
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