The Faded Paradox
The ink on the warrant was still wet when Thomas Bradshaw read it for the third time. It glistened in the dim light of the watchtower, a small, dark star against the yellowed parchment. He held the paper by its corners, afraid to smear the seal. It was a warrant for his own arrest. He did not feel fear. He felt a strange, cold clarity, as if a fever had finally broken. The tower stood on the...
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