The Pale Verdict
The carriage wheels groaned against the cobblestones of Whitmore’s industrial sprawl, a rhythmic, grinding sound that seemed to vibrate in the marrow of Elias Thorne’s bones. He sat upright, his spine a rigid rod of iron will, his eyes fixed on the mist that clung to the soot-blackened factories lining the route to the Palace of Records. Thorne was not a man, in the way that the men of the...
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