The Pale Banner
The ink on the parchment was still wet when Silas Thorne noticed the smell of rot beneath the wax seal. It was a faint, sweet decay, like overripe plums left in the sun, but it cut through the sterile, chalky scent of the municipal archive with an aggressive clarity. Silas adjusted his spectacles, the lenses smudged with the dust of a decade spent cataloging the dead. He was not a hero, nor was...
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