The Pale Verdict
The name hangs in the air, spoken by the clerk with the flat, bored intonation of a man reading a weather report. "Thorne. Elias Thorne." You step forward. The ink on your petition is still wet, drying on the parchment under the harsh gaslight of the High Judge’s office. You have spent twenty years in Oakhaven, twenty years of service, twenty years of keeping the books balanced and the peace...
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