The Distant Promise
The banquet hall of the Blackwood Institute smelled of roasted pheasant and stale ambition. Elias Thorne stood near the pillar, holding a glass of wine he had not sipped, watching the faculty circle around Director Vane. He was forty-two, a senior archivist, and to the room he was furniture, a necessary piece of the institution’s machinery that kept the lights on and the files straight. His...
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