The Pale Path
The ink was not merely a color, but a substance, thick and cold as wet clay, pooling in the hollows of the parchment. Elias Thorne held his breath, the quill trembling in a hand that had once broken the spines of men who refused to kneel. He was the Keeper of the Seal, the final arbiter of the King’s Justice, a title that had once carried the weight of a thunderclap. Now, it carried only the...
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