The Faded Chronicle
The chrysanthemums in the center of the marble table were dying, their petals curling inward like old hands clutching for warmth, and Major Elias Thorne watched them with the detached precision of a man cataloging evidence. The air in the Hall of Ministers was thick with the scent of decaying blooms and the stale smoke of briar pipes, a cloying perfume that seemed to settle into the very fabric...
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