The Wistful Cipher
The ring is not in your pocket, Constable." I looked up from the ledger, the ink still wet on the page, the smell of iron filings and old dust thick in the air of the archive. Justiciar Thorne stood in the doorway, his backlit by the grey fog that always seemed to cling to the lower levels of the court. He did not enter. He simply watched me, his eyes flat and hard as flint. "It was in my...
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