The Distant Wound
The transfer request was denied, Director Vane said, his voice carrying the dry, brittle snap of a ruler cracking against a desk. He looked at me, Elias Thorne, thirty-four years old and tired to the bone, and smiled as if he had just told a joke that only the State understood. I stood in the center of the Grand Hall, the air thick with the scent of roasted meat and expensive perfume, while the...
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