The Wistful Witness
The silver goblet in Elias Thorne’s hand caught the candlelight, throwing a fractured prism across the banquet table where the Duke sat presiding over the autumn feast. Elias, a forty-two-year-old archivist with ink-stained cuticles and a tremor that had begun to dance in his left hand like a trapped bird, raised the glass to his lips. He was waiting for the speech. For six months, he had...
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