The Pale Banner
The chandelier in the Whitmore Hall ballroom swung with a slow, pendular grace, casting long, fractured shadows across the polished marble floor where Elias Thorne stood rigid amidst the sea of silk and tweed. He was forty-two, a man whose hair had gone prematurely silver at the temples, a color that matched the pale, unnatural mist that clung to the corners of the room, a phenomenon visible...
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