The Pale Fracture
The red stain on the oak desk would not lift. Elias Thorne pressed the rag against the wood, scrubbing with a force that made his knuckles white, but the crimson only spread, a thin, arterial web that pulsed in time with his own frantic heartbeat. He was forty-two, an archivist of modest reputation, and his hands shook so violently that the pen in his other hand clattered to the floor. The air...
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