The Pale Verdict
The rain had not stopped in three days, turning the cobblestones of the Palace of Justice into a slick, black mirror that reflected the weeping willows with a fidelity that felt less like nature and more like accusation. Elias Thorne, forty years old and bent by a decade of hunching over vellum, clutched his satchel as he walked the long, gray corridor toward the infirmary, his footsteps...
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