The Pale Dance
The rain lashed against the high, narrow windows of the Royal Archive, a relentless drumming that Elias Thorne tried to ignore. He was thirty-two, a man whose hands were permanently stained with the dust of history, and he sat before the open ledger of the late Queen’s private journals, his quill poised but unmoving. The air in the room was thick, smelling of mildew and old paper, a scent that...
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