The Pale Path
The air in the Grand Hall of St. Jude’s Institute for the Dispossessed tasted of copper and stale lavender, a metallic sweetness that had settled into the pores of the marble floors and the velvet drapes long before Elias Thorne had ever donned his uniform of deep, unforgiving blue. He stood at the base of the sweeping staircase, his boots polished to a mirror shine that reflected the...
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