The Faded Road
The crystal chandeliers of the Grand Hotel ballroom cast a prismatic glare across the polished oak floor, reflecting the brass buttons of two hundred officers in crisp wool uniforms. Elias Thorne stood near the punch bowl, his hand gripping the stem of a glass of sherry so tightly his knuckles turned white. He was forty-five, his face a map of deep lines carved by thirty years of service, and...
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