The Pale Dance
The notice lay on the mahogany desk, the paper stiff with age and the weight of the seal. Elias Thorne picked it up, his fingers brushing the rough grain of the wood, and read the words that stripped him of his title. He was no longer Senior Archivist. He was merely a clerk. The gray manor outside the window did not shift, but the air in the room seemed to thicken, pressing against his...
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