The Distant Journey
The rain fell on the slate roof of the precinct in a steady, gray curtain. Inside, the air tasted of stale coffee and wet wool. Silas Vance stood by the window, his back to the room. He was a large man, built of muscle and silence. His hands, rough as bark, hung at his sides. They were still. That was the trouble with Silas. He was a soldier in a city that no longer needed soldiers. He needed...
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