The Faded Alibi
The needle slipped through the wool, catching a snag in the lining, and Elias Thorne pulled the thread tight with a grunt that echoed off the damp stone walls of the barracks. He was thirty-four years old, and his hands, rough as the leather of his boots, trembled slightly not from age but from the hollow ache of a stomach that had not seen meat in three days. The tunic was a patchwork of grey...
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