The Pale Mist
Thorne. The name hung in the air, sharp and singular, cutting through the low, persistent hum that had become the background noise of Elias’s last six weeks. He looked up from the ledger, his pen hovering over the line item for the *Whispering Reliquary*, a glass vessel no larger than a human heart yet heavy as a bag of wet sand. The Institute of Antiquities had acquired it three days prior,...
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