The Pale Verdict
The iron is hot. It is the color of a bruise that will not fade, a dull, angry red that bleeds into the grey stone of the courtyard. You stand before the pyre, your back rigid, your hands bound not by rope but by the weight of your own discipline. The fire does not roar; it whispers, a dry, rasping sound like old parchment being torn in a drafty room. You are Thomas Bradshaw, and you are the...
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