The Distant Whispers
Could a man hear the blood in his own veins if the world went silent? Astrid Nystrom had asked that question in the archives, where the damp air tasted of iron and old paper. She was thirty-two, a scribe in the court of Veldt, and the drizzle had been falling for three days, soaking through the wool of her coat until it clung to her skin like a second, heavier layer. The washboard rhythm from...
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