The Pale Verdict
The banquet hall smells of wet wool and old copper. You sit at the head of a table that stretches out into the dark, the candelabras flickering with a light that seems to come from nowhere. The food is grey, soft, and unappetizing, but you eat because you are hungry, and because the alternative is to leave, and you cannot leave. You are Elias Thorne. You are forty-two. You are here for the...
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