The Pale Banner
The rain in Aethelgard did not fall; it seeped, a persistent, grey weeping that turned the cobblestones of the court into slick mirrors of the sky. Elias Thorne stood before the High Chancellor’s desk, his hands clasped so tightly his knuckles whitened, watching the man dismiss his petition with a wave that was less a gesture than a dismissal of dust. "The Palace is alive, Mr. Thorne," the...
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