The Wistful Cipher
The feast in the great hall of Blackwood Keep was a loud, clumsy thing, the sort of celebration that masked the rot beneath the floorboards with noise and grease. Sergeant Elias Thorne sat at the far end of the long table, his plate untouched, listening to the magistrate’s men laugh too hard at jokes that had no punchlines. Elias was forty years old, his hands rough from twenty years of holding...
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