The Pale Dance
The carriage wheels groaned against the cobblestones of Oram, a sound that died abruptly as the vehicle halted before the Pale Hall. Elias Thorne stepped out, his boots sinking into the frost-hardened earth. He was thirty-two, a man whose face had been carved by three years of sleepless nights and a debt that ate his spirit faster than the cold ate his fingers. He carried a satchel of modern...
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