The Pale Exile
The wax was hot on Elias Thorne’s thumb, a small, painful bloom of heat against the cold parchment. He pressed the Guild’s seal into the wet center of the ledger page, holding it there for the precise count of three seconds required by protocol. His fingers trembled, not from age, though he was forty, but from the weight of the iron stylus in his other hand. The counting house smelled of tallow...
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