The Distant Whispers
The celebration for the Ministry of Foreign Affairs’ centennial had been a grotesque affair, a tableau of decay dressed in silk and champagne. Elias Thorne stood near the periphery of the grand ballroom, his fifty-two-year-old body aching with the peculiar stiffness that had begun to settle into his joints like silt in a stagnant river. He watched the dancers, their movements a blur of frantic...
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