The Wistful Throne
The banquet hall of the Sterling Institute for Advanced Forensics smelled of roasted lamb and ozone. You stood at the edge of the mahogany table, your wine glass trembling slightly in your hand, watching the steam rise from the silver platters. Around you, the faces of the department’s elite turned in lazy, illuminated circles. Dr. Arthur Sterling, the man whose name was stitched into the very...
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