The Pale Path
The order slip lay on the mahogany desk, its ink still wet and smelling of iron. It was a simple list, three lines of small, precise type: *Subject: Grand Duke Alaric. Condition: Wasting Cough. Proposed Remedy: Manual Transference. Attendant: Elias Vane.* I had written it myself, in the cramped, urgent script of a boy who knows that hesitation is death. The paper was thin, almost translucent,...
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