The Pale Echo
The obsidian shard cuts a thin, red line across your palm, but you do not flinch, for the pain is a welcome anchor against the cold that seeps from the walls of the Blackwood Estate. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two, a junior archivist whose tenure hangs by a thread as thin as the paper in the ledgers you catalog, and the winter budget cuts announced by the board of trustees are a guillotine...
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