The Pale Path
The rain in the city did not wash things clean; it only made the grime slicker, turning the cobblestones into mirrors of the grey sky. Elias Thorne stood on the corner of Vane Street, watching a carriage splash a puddle onto the hem of his constable’s coat, the dark wool soaking through to his skin with a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. He was forty-two, a man who had served the...
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