The Pale Garden
The gaslight in the corridor of the Magistrate’s palace flickered with a sickly, jaundiced pulse, casting long, trembling shadows that seemed to reach for Elias Thorne’s bandaged left hand. He stood before the oak doors of the High Magistrate’s antechamber, his knuckles white where they gripped the doorframe, the linen wrapping around his swollen fingers damp with sweat and the faint, metallic...
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