The Pale Echo
The name was shouted from the top of the stairs, sharp and brittle as a snapped twig. "Thorne." Elias did not look up from the ledger. His pen hovered over the page, ink wet and black, waiting for a number that did not exist. The voice belonged to Mr. Vane, the Head Archivist, a man whose salary was triple Elias’s and whose shoes were polished to a mirror shine that reflected the dust motes...
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