The Faded Chronicle
The fluorescent lights hummed a low, electric drone, a sound Elias Thorne had long since learned to ignore, though it seemed to vibrate directly in his molars today. He sat in the sub-basement of the Ministry of Records, a room so deep in the building that the air tasted of dust and stale ozone. Before him lay the Faded Chronicle, a ledger bound in cracked leather, its pages thin as onion skin....
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