The Pale Echo
The chandelier above the Ministry of Internal Security’s grand ballroom was a cage of crystal and steel, refracting the light into a thousand sharp, accusing points. Elias Thorne stood near the edge of the room, his fingers wrapped tightly around the stem of a glass of champagne he did not taste. He was forty-two, a forensic linguist who had spent the last three years dissecting the syntax of...
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