The Pale Letter
The carriage wheels groaned against the cobblestones of the old road, a rhythmic, grinding sound that seemed to emanate from the very bones of the earth, as though the journey itself were a slow, painful exhalation from the throat of a dying god, and Elias Vane sat in the corner of the cramped seat, his knees pressed tightly together, his hands resting on his lap with a stillness that was not...
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