The Pale Exile
The rain against the window of the small, rented office on the fourth floor of the Whitmore & Sons textile mill office block was not merely a sound, but a persistent, rhythmic accusation. It tapped against the glass with the insistent, dull thud of a clerk counting out coins for a debt that could never be repaid. Elias Thorne sat behind his desk, a mahogany slab that had been sanded down to a...
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