The Pale Letter
The ink on the first sheet was still wet when Elias Thorne noticed it, a pale, viscous smear that smelled of brine and old copper. It lay on his desk in the keeper’s quarters, a single page of dense, cramped script that he recognized with a lurch of nausea as his own handwriting, though he had not written a word in three days. The letter accused him of negligence, of letting the beam falter...
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