The fire began in the attic, a silent, blue-veined thing that ate the rafters like a hungry ghost. It did not roar. It whispered. It curled through the dust and the forgotten maps, turning the wood of the old house into ash that fell like snow upon the floorboards below.
Elias Thorne stood in the hallway. He was a tall man, his spine straight as a drawn sword, his uniform immaculate despite the...
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