The Pale Echo
Thorne, you are shaking the shelves. The sound of the leather binding cracking against the oak was sharp, a dry snap that echoed off the damp stone walls of the archive, and Elias Thorne stopped, his hand still raised, the tremor in his fingers visible now as a fine, rapid vibration that he could no longer hide behind the authority of his office. He was forty-five years old, a man whose career...
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