The Faded Ruin
December 14, 1912. The air in the great hall tastes of coal smoke and roasted venison, a thick, cloying sweetness that sits heavy on the tongue, masking the metallic tang of blood that has been rising in my throat for weeks. Magistrate Aldous Thorne, a man whose face has become as pale and taut as parchment under the gaslight, stands at the head of the table, his voice cutting through the...
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