The Wistful Witness
The office smelled of rot, a thick, cloying sweetness that sat heavy in the back of the throat like a bad tooth. Elias Thorne, a sergeant with twenty years of service and hands that had learned the weight of a rifle before the weight of a man, stood before the mahogany desk of Lord Vane. The air in the room was still, but the scent moved, curling around the legs of the chair where Vane sat, a...
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