The Faded Paradox
The banquet hall of the Vane Industrial Complex smelled of roasted pheasant and wet wool, a cloying mixture that hung heavy in the air above the polished mahogany tables where the staff of Lord Blackwood’s empire gathered to celebrate the quarter’s record output. Arthur Vane, twelve years old and sharp-featured, sat at the far end of the long table, his knees pressed together, watching the...
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