The Wistful Witness
The parchment was not merely a document; it was a skin, thin and trembling, stretched over the bones of a law that had long since ceased to breathe. Elias Thorne held it against his chest as if it were a dying child, the ink still wet, glistening with the sweat of the scribe who had just signed the death warrant. Outside the high, arched windows of the Chancery, the winter rain lashed against...
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