The Pale Fracture
The rain did not fall so much as it hung, a grey curtain drawn tight against the windows of the detention block. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of wet wool, stale tobacco, and the metallic tang of fear. Elias Thorne stood by the bars, his uniform buttoned to the throat, though the collar chafed. He had served thirty years in the Iron Guard, the force that kept the order of the New...
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