The Wistful Silence
The crystal chandeliers in the Guildhall banquet hall cast a fractured, glittering light across the polished oak floor, a chaotic constellation that seemed to mock the rigid uniformity of the night watch as Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the room, his hand resting on the hilt of his service revolver, a gesture of habit rather than threat, while the Mayor’s toast echoed off the high vaulted...
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