The Pale Shadows
The banquet hall of the University of St. Jude’s smelled of roasted pheasant and stale pipe tobacco, a heavy, cloying scent that seemed to settle into the wool of Professor Elias Thorne’s tweed jacket. It was a celebration of sorts, though the kind that felt less like joy and more like a collective exhale of relief. The air was thick with the low hum of conversation, a technical drone of...
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