The Faded Dust
Thorne. The word hung in the air, sharp and brittle, before it could even settle against the dust motes drifting in the single shaft of light that pierced the high window of the Inquisition’s inner office. You did not turn immediately. You were still adjusting the cuffs of your wool coat, checking the hem for the faint, tell-tale discoloration that might betray your proximity to the sash,...
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