The Pale Echo
The dream began not with light, but with the sensation of being submerged in cold, thick wool. Elias Thorne woke in the center of the narrow, candlelit study, his breath hitching in a chest that felt too small for his lungs, the residual chill of the dream still clinging to his skin like a damp shroud. He was a man who had built his reputation on the dissection of lies in the gaslit streets of...
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