The Distant Nightmare
The leather-bound volume lay open on the oak desk, its pages blank save for a single, jagged line of ink that seemed to pulse in the dim light of the inquisitor’s chamber. Elias Thorne held the book with hands that trembled, not from the cold of the November night, but from the fine, white dust that had settled on his knuckles over the last hour. He was forty years old, a man who had spent two...
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