The Distant Affair
The ink on the parchment was still wet, a dark, bleeding vein against the vellum, and Julian Vane watched it dry with the detached, clinical interest of a man observing the onset of his own decay, knowing that the words he had committed to the page were not a confession but a weapon, a jagged shard of glass intended to cut the throat of the very institution that had raised him, for he had spent...
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