The Pale Path
The lantern light caught the wet cobblestones, turning the street into a mirror of jagged reflections. You stood rigid, your hand resting on the hilt of your truncheon, the brass cold against your palm. The uniform you wore was the finest wool in the city, pressed sharp as a knife’s edge, and you knew that this garment was the only thing separating you from the gutter. It was the promise of...
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