The Pale Door
The chain was cold. It bit into Elias Thorne’s wrists, a dull, metallic ache that traveled up the bones of his arms and settled in his shoulders. He stood before the magistrate’s bench, his breath fogging in the stale air of the courtroom, watching the dust motes dance in the single shaft of light that pierced the gloom. The room smelled of damp wool and old paper, a scent that had long since...
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