The Pale Path
Thorne. The word was not spoken aloud, but it landed in the rotunda with the weight of a physical blow, a summons from the shadows that pooled in the corners of the Old Hall. Elias Thorne, forty-two years old and a senior archivist for the county, stood before the central pedestal, his hands trembling not from the cold, though the air was damp and biting, but from the sheer, grinding resistance...
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