The Faded Paradox
Silas Vane, the name was called out not as a greeting but as a summons, sharp and brittle as a bone snapping under a boot, cutting through the dense, grey wool of the fog that clung to the cobblestones of Oakhaven. He stood at the edge of the river, where the water churned with a thick, oily sludge that smelled of iron and rot, holding a leather satchel that weighed heavy against his hip, the...
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