The Pale Fracture
The air in the execution chamber tasted of ozone and stale antiseptic, a flavor Elias Thorne had learned to ignore over twenty years of service to the Regime. He stood before the glass partition, his hands resting on the cold steel of the railing, watching the young man strapped to the chair on the other side. Elias was forty, a warden of the highest order, and for two decades he had been the...
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