The Faded Alibi
The parchment lay on the oak table, its edges curling slightly in the damp air of the inquisitorial chamber. Thomas Bradshaw smoothed the document with his thumb, the ink still wet and smelling of iron gall and vinegar. It was a citation for the execution of Elias Vane, a heretic whose left hand had fused into a pulsing, root-like mass of tissue that defied every anatomical text Thomas had ever...
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