The Faded Sutra
The count began with the hours, twenty-two of them since the last lamp had been trimmed in the Inquisitor’s outer office, and Elias Thorne had spent every single minute of that duration pressing his thumb against the cold, tarnished surface of the silver brooch, feeling the metal’s temperature drop until it matched the damp stone of the cell floor. He was forty years old, a captain in the Royal...
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