The Pale Dance
The banquet hall of the Imperial Academy smelled of roasted pheasant and old stone, a heavy, suffocating mixture that settled in the throat like dust. You sat at the high table, your fork hovering over a plate of untouched venison, while the laughter of the junior fellows rolled across the room in waves that felt distant and muffled. Dr. Elias Thorne, thirty-two years old and holding a chair in...
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