The Distant Whispers
The ledger lay open on the oak table, its pages heavy with the scent of old ink and the damp rot of the cellar, and Elias Thorne felt the floor tilt beneath him as he traced the final, damning column of figures. For thirty years, he had served the High Inquisitor, a man whose voice had been the only anchor in a life otherwise adrift in the grey monotony of the archive, but now the numbers did...
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