The Pale Echo
The chisel slips, biting into the wax cylinder with a sound like a bone snapping. You pull your hand back, the metal cold against your palm, the smell of tallow and old iron filling the small, windowless room. Outside, the fog presses against the chapel glass, a thick, grey hand trying to push its way in, but the stone walls hold. You are Elias Thorne. You are a constable. And you are about to...
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