The Pale Bridge
The ink was wet. Elara Vane watched the black blotch spread across the page of Arthur’s ledger, a dark vein creeping through the grain of the paper like a bruise forming under skin. She pressed a thumb against the stain, trying to stop it, but the paper was soft, yielding, absorbing the liquid into its fibers. Outside the window, the river churned grey and fast, carrying the debris of the...
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