The Faded Sutra
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, sealed with wax the color of dried blood. Silas Vane opened it in his office. The air smelled of dust and old paper. He read the name. Arthur Pendelton. Dead. Three days prior. The cause was listed as a sudden failure of the heart. But the handwriting was not Arthur’s. It was jagged. Nervous. It was the hand of someone who knew what they were doing was wrong,...
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