The Pale Bridge
The tribunal was supposed to be in three days, but the black wood was already in my knuckles, cold and hard as iron, spreading up the wrist in a lattice of pale, crystalline veins. I stood in the center of the border station’s interrogation room, the fluorescent lights humming a low, sickly note that seemed to vibrate in my teeth, while Director Vance sat across from me, his face a mask of...
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