The Pale Exile
The petition lay on the magistrate’s desk, a sheet of heavy, cream-colored paper that Elias Thorne had spent three weeks drafting, his hands shaking so badly that the ink had bled into the fibers, creating a map of his own desperation. He watched the ink dry, watching the way the words *Pardon* and *Appeal* seemed to sink into the surface, disappearing into the wood grain like coins dropped...
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