The Faded Alibi
The morning mist clung to the high windows of the Inquisitor’s Hall like a shroud of wet wool, filtering the pale light into a grey, liquid suspension that settled upon the polished oak floor. Elara stood before the great circular table, her hands folded tightly in her lap, the fabric of her modest woolen dress twisting under the pressure of her grip. She was not a woman of many words, nor one...
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