The Faded Alibi
The quill trembled in Magistrate Elias Thorne’s hand, a fine, dry shiver that had nothing to do with the chill of the stone walls and everything to do with the failing architecture of his lungs. He was forty-two, a man who had spent the last two decades ironing his soul into the rigid, black folds of the Inquisition’s robes, yet the ink on the parchment blurred before his eyes as he waited for...
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