The Pale Fracture
Thorne, you are late, and the air in this chamber is not meant for your lungs to fill with hesitation. The summons came from the Chief Archivist, a man whose voice had the dry, rustling quality of old paper being turned in a windless room, and it arrived with the scent of ozone and stale antiseptic that permeated the high-tech courts of the Aethelgard State, a smell that clung to the back of...
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