The Pale Verdict
The mud in the square was freezing, a thick, grey paste that sucked at my boots with every step I took to clear my name, though the name itself was already a ghost, thinning in the air. I am Thomas, a constable of Oakhaven, forty years old, and I am waiting for the fog to tell me I am a liar. The Pale Verdict is not a myth, not a tale spun by grandmothers by the fire, but a physical thing, a...
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