The Pale Exile
The ink on the ledger is wet, and it smears under the thumb, a black bruise spreading across the grid of dates, counting the hours until the solstice when the pension board will come to weigh the integrity of your thirty years of service. You are Elias Thorne, archivist of the Whitmore Institute, and you need this catalog to be perfect, not because the truth matters to you, but because the...
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