The Pale Exile
"Check the ledger. Now." The voice was thin. It cut through the humidity of the office like a wire. Silas didn’t look up. He adjusted the magnifying glass over the ink-stamped column. The numbers blurred, then sharpened. A mistake. A single digit, misplaced. A ghost in the machine. "Page forty-two," Silas said. His voice was low. Gravel under a boot. "And the font. You’re using Arial. It’s......
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