The Pale Fracture
The iron candlestick cracked against Elias Thorne’s jaw with a sound like a dry branch snapping under a winter boot, and the world tilted sideways into a smear of blood and dust. He did not cry out; the pain was a sudden, white-hot spike that drove the air from his lungs, leaving him gasping on the cold stone floor of the Inquisition’s archive cellar. Above him, Magistrate Vane stood swaying,...
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