The Pale Verdict
The frost had settled thick on the windowpane of the counting room, turning the glass into a sheet of opaque white. Elias Thorne stood before it, his breath forming small, fragile clouds that dissipated before they could touch the cold surface. He was an old man, his hands gnarled like the roots of the oak tree that stood in the courtyard below. For thirty years, he had served Lord Ashworth,...
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