The Faded Chronicle
The mud on the road was thick and black, sucking at the wheels of the carriage with a wet, rhythmic pull. Archibald Vane sat hunched over, his hands gripping the edge of the seat until his knuckles turned white. He was forty years old, though the mirror in the archivist’s office had begun to show a man of fifty, his eyesight failing, his spine curving under the weight of decades spent leaning...
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