The Faded Paradox
The blood was warm on my left palm, a fresh and weeping crescent that mirrored the missing hand of Lord Vane, and I sat in the damp, candlelit archives of the High Court, watching the skin split further as if the air itself were a blade seeking its mark. I am Elias Thorne, an archivist of thirty-two years, and for the past three nights I have been hunting the true culprit of the assassination,...
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