The Faded Alibi
The fire did not roar. It whispered. It whispered through the thatch of the watchtower, a dry, sibilant sound like a secret shared between old friends. Alderman Corwin sat on the cold stone floor. He held the vial in his hand. It was small. Glass. Amber light trapped inside. The heat was a physical thing. It pressed against his back. It pushed against his eyelids. He blinked. The world...
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