The Faded Paradox
The letter in your hand is changing, the ink smearing into a wet, dark bruise that spreads across the parchment like a stain on a shirt. "Is that what you call evidence, Elias?" Vane’s voice is flat, stripped of any inflection that might suggest surprise. He does not look up from his desk, his pen moving in a steady, rhythmic scratch against the ledger before him. "We have been over the harbor...
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