The Pale Letter
The ink in the well was black, but the hand holding the quill was turning the color of old parchment. Elias Thorne stared at the ledger, the numbers blurring as his fingers twitched, a rhythmic, involuntary shudder that had become the defining feature of his last three months. He was thirty-two, a court scribe of modest reputation and desperate need, and he needed the permanent post of Chief...
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