The Pale Verdict
The banquet hall smelled of roasted goose and beeswax, a heavy, cloying sweetness that seemed to coat the air in a sticky film. Silas Vane sat at the head of the long oak table, his hands resting flat on the polished wood, fingers splayed as if trying to anchor himself against the slow, inexorable turning of the world. Around him, the city’s elite murmured in low, conspiratorial tones, their...
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