The Pale Verdict
The parchment lay on the oak counter, its edges curled from the damp, bearing the Guild Master’s seal in red wax that had cracked as it cooled. Thomas Bradshaw did not read the words aloud; he had read them twice in his mind, the way one reads a diagnosis, knowing the outcome before the ink dries. The letter cited a discrepancy in the ledger of tinctures, a minor clerical error in the...
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