The Wistful Witness
The ink had dried on the parchment, or rather, it had been smeared into a brown smear by the rain that leaked through the thatch of the magistrate’s office, a slow and steady decay that mirrored the state of Sir Julian Thorne’s mind as he sat hunched over the desk, his fingers tracing the grain of the wood with a precision that felt less like work and more like a ritual of self-punishment, for...
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