The Pale Bridge
The crystal decanter in Elias Thorne’s hand trembled, not from the cold of the Oakhaven fog seeping through the heavy wool of his uniform, but from the sudden, violent contraction of his own stomach. He stood at the edge of the Grand Hall’s balcony, watching the city below where the stone bridges arched over the dark water, and he could feel the specific, gritty weight of the debt ledger in his...
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