The Pale Verdict
The transfer of warmth was a slow, viscous thing, like honey poured from a jar held too high, and Elias Thorne felt it leave his fingertips in a steady, draining stream that turned the air between their hands into a visible haze of gray dust, a substance that settled on the linoleum of the barracks floor with the weight of wet sand. He sat on the edge of the cot, his knees drawn up to his...
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