The Pale Banner
The dream always began with the sound of tearing, a dry, fibrous rip that echoed in the hollows of Elias Thorne’s chest before the image resolved. He woke in the damp gloom of the university archives, his breath rattling in a throat lined with phlegm, the taste of copper thick on his tongue. Forty years old, and his lungs had begun to betray him, a slow, consuming fire that turned every...
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