The Pale Banner
Elias Thorne held the brass key in his left hand, the metal cold against his palm, a small weight that felt heavier than the iron door it unlocked. He was thirty-two, a junior archivist with ink stains permanently embedded in the whorls of his fingerprints, and he stood before the Municipal Hall, a building that sagged under the weight of its own rot. The wind whistled through the broken upper...
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