The Faded Paradox
The midwinter banquet at the Ministry of Records was a spectacle of excessive heat and clinking silver, a suffocating warmth that clung to Elias Thorne’s wool suit like a damp cloth. He stood near the heavy oak doors, feeling the weight of the obsidian mirror in his inner coat pocket, a jagged, cold mass against his ribs that seemed to vibrate with the low hum of the orchestra. For forty-two...
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