The Pale Protocol
The train from Edinburgh to the capital moved with a sluggish, grinding weight, as if the iron wheels were dragging their souls through the gravel. Elias Thorne sat in the corner of the second-class carriage, his knees drawn up to his chest, his hands resting on his lap with a stillness that seemed unnatural for a man of his age. He was sixty-two, a man whose face had been carved by decades of...
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