The Pale Verdict
The letter in Elias Thorne’s hand was heavy, the parchment thick and stiff with the weight of the King’s seal. It smelled of tallow and old wax, a sharp, chemical scent that cut through the damp chill of the keep. He ran his thumb over the ink, the black letters blurring slightly as his vision swam. Forty years old, and his heart was a rusted hinge, grinding against the bone every time he drew...
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