The Faded Alibi
The iron gate of the Citadel of Saint Jude groaned open with a sound like a dying whale’s breath, releasing a gust of air that tasted of ozone and old blood, and into that dark, suffocating throat strode Elias Thorne, a man whose uniform was less a garment than a second skin of scarred leather and riveted steel, the metal biting into his shoulders with every step he took toward the center of...
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