The Pale Echo
The chandelier in the Vane estate hung like a frozen explosion of crystal, refracting the champagne into a thousand sharp, accusing points. Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the ballroom, his tuxedo a stiff armor against the humid air, watching Julian Vane move through the crowd with the fluid grace of a man who owned the very air he breathed. Vane was laughing, a low, resonant sound that...
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