The Pale Dance
Your fingers are stained with the black ink of the 1893 ledger, a dark smear that cuts across the knuckles and refuses to wash out with cold water. You are Elias Thorne, thirty-four years old, and you are standing in the empty office of Dr. Aris, your mentor, who left his post three hours ago to resign in protest against the Dean’s new directive. The desk is bare except for a single, unlit pipe...
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