The Distant Wound
The crystal flutes clinked with a sound like breaking bones, a sharp, brittle fracture that echoed through the vaulted ceiling of the Ministry’s banquet hall, where the air hung heavy with the cloying, artificial sweetness of synthetic wine and the metallic tang of fear. I raised my glass, my hand trembling so violently that the liquid sloshed over the rim, soaking the cuff of my white shirt in...
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