The Pale Fracture
The damp in the basement of the State Archive does not smell like mold, but like wet iron and old paper, a scent that has seeped into the fibers of your skin and the wool of your uniform over the last three weeks. You are fourteen years old, Elias Thorne, and you have been assigned to the lowest tier of the Ministry of Historical Correction, a position that is technically a punishment but which...
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