The Pale Bridge
The brass seal in Elias Thorne’s hand was cold, its surface etched with a spiral that seemed to turn when he was not looking directly at it, a fragment of the larger sigil that had once bound their father’s soul to the iron court. He stood on the far bank of the river, the water black and still beneath the grey sky, holding the shard as if it were a live coal, feeling the phantom tremor in his...
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