The rain hammered against the iron shutters of the city hall, a rhythmic, metallic drumming that seemed to vibrate through the soles of Elias Thorne’s boots. He stood in the center of the great rotunda, his hands hanging loose at his sides, fingers slightly curled as if still gripping the hilt of a sword long since returned to its scabbard in a museum case. Around him, the marble floor was cold...
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