The Pale Dance
The seal was wrong, and Elias Thorne knew it before the light from the gas lamp fully reached the velvet crate. He held the brass insignia up, the metal cold against his sweating palm, the intricate eagle clutching a sheaf of wheat etched with a precision that made his stomach turn. It was an exact replica, a ghost of the badge he had worn until the morning of his disgrace, three years prior,...
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