The Distant Wound
The chandeliers in the Grand Hall of the Ministry of Internal Order did not sway, for they were suspended by rigid steel cables rather than chains, a design choice that spoke to the state’s preference for unyielding stability over graceful motion. Elias Thorne stood near the center of the room, his fifty-two-year-old frame stiff against the silk of his ceremonial tunic, watching the dance floor...
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