The Pale Verdict
The stone cell was cold, a fact Elias Thorne had long since ceased to feel as physical discomfort and begun to register as a moral condition, a chill that settled in the marrow and refused to be thawed by the thin wool of his clerk’s robe. He sat before the single white orchid, its stem cracked down the center like a broken bone, and watched the dust motes dance in the shaft of pale light that...
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