The Wistful Cipher
The seal on the parchment was cracked, a jagged wound in red wax that smelled of burnt resin and old blood. Elias Thorne held it between his thumb and forefinger, the leather of his fingers worn thin and translucent from decades of handling vellum, and stared at the Magistrate’s crest until the shape blurred into a smear of crimson. He was forty years old, a man whose spine had curved slightly...
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