The Pale Letter
Thorne! The voice cracked through the fog like a whip. You stand before the bed, your left hand wrapped in white linen that has turned yellow with sweat. The King is coughing. It is a wet, tearing sound, deep in the chest. Blood spatters your white gloves. You do not flinch. You have seen this before, in the mirror of your own flesh. The bandage on your left hand throbs. It beats in time with...
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