The Pale Meridian
The ballroom of the Royal Sanitarium for the Insane and the Broken, a sprawling edifice of red brick and grim iron, hummed with the low, vibrating thrum of a thousand suppressed screams. It was a feast of silence, a banquet of the hollow-eyed, where the air hung thick with the scent of lavender sachets masking the sharper, metallic tang of old fear. Colonel Arthur Thorne stood at the center of...
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