The Pale Door
The champagne in the crystal flute was warm, a fact that Elias Thorne noticed with the same detached precision he applied to the dating of vellum manuscripts, his eyes fixed not on the swirling liquid but on the jagged, iridescent shards of the Pale Door seal resting in the silver tray before him. He was thirty-four years old, a senior archivist at the Imperial Ministry of Records, and the...
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