The Faded Alibi
The stone breathes. You feel it in your teeth, a low hum that has replaced the sound of your own pulse. You are Elias Thorne, and you are forty-two years old, but the Palace does not care for your age. It cares only for the debt. You stand in the east wing, where the air is thick with the scent of dry rot and old paper. Your fingers bleed from where you struck the ledger’s cover, trying to...
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