The Faded Shield
The nib of Elias Thorne’s pen hovered a hair’s breadth above the vellum, the tip trembling with a weight that had nothing to do with the ink and everything to do with the silence of the Ministry. He was forty years old, a man whose spine had long since surrendered its curvature to the stoop of the desk, and the soot from the coal fires outside had settled into the creases of his hands, a...
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