The Pale Bridge
Thorne. The name hung in the air, sharp and cold, before Elias Thorne could answer. He stood on the Pale Bridge, the living vein of bone that connected the floating islands of Aethelgard, and felt the vibration of his own pulse in the marrow beneath his boots. He was forty years old, an archivist of modest rank, and he held a sealed scroll in his left hand, the final treaty that would secure...
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