The Pale Dance
The winter had settled into the stone walls of the Institute like a damp, cold breath that would not be exhaled, leaving Elias Thorne to sit in the dim, amber glow of his study, surrounded by the silent, towering spines of books that had not been opened in years. He was a man who had spent a lifetime decoding the silent languages of dead civilizations, yet he could not decipher the silence of...
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