The Pale Fracture
The tablet in Elias Thorne’s hand was cold, the glass slick with the condensation of the storm that had been battering the estate’s perimeter for three hours. He stood in the center of the Vane drawing room, the air thick with the scent of wet wool and the faint, metallic tang of ozone that always preceded a surge in the sector’s power grid. The Ministry’s algorithm had flagged him as...
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