The Pale Echo
The air in the Imperial Archive tasted of damp rot and old varnish, a scent that had settled into the pores of your skin over twenty years of service, but tonight it carried a metallic tang, like blood on a tongue. You, Elias Thorne, the Court Historian, sat hunched over a desk of black oak, the candle flame trembling in a draft that seemed to emanate from the sealed ledger before you. The book...
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