The Pale Garden
The ink was still wet on the ledger when Elias Vance closed the book. His thumb pressed a smudge into the parchment, a dark smear against the column of debts owed to the Abbey of St. Jude. He did not wipe it away. He stood, the floorboards groaning under the weight of his cloak, and looked out the high window at the snow. It fell in thick, silent clumps, burying the cobbled path that led to the...
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