The Pale Tale
The crystal tumbler in Elias Thorne’s hand was heavy, a thick-walled piece of glass that felt less like a drinking vessel and more like a paperweight, a solid anchor against the slick, polished surface of the banquet table. He gripped it tightly, his knuckles white, as he looked out over the room. The Hall of Commerce was draped in velvet the color of dried blood, and the air smelled of...
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