The Faded Chronicle
The rain had not stopped for three days, turning the cobblestones of the old precinct into a slick, obsidian mirror that reflected the bruised purple of the twilight sky. Arthur Penhaligon, a man whose face was a topography of deep, carved lines and whose hair had turned the color of ash, stood before the heavy oak doors of the Governor’s mansion. He was not a visitor, not in the traditional...
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