The Pale Shadows
The tongs in Elias Thorne’s hand trembled, a fine, high-frequency vibration that matched the ticking of the Aethelgard clock on the table before him. He was forty years old, and the weight of the silver letter opener in his other pocket felt like a leaden anchor against his thigh. Around him, the ballroom at Vane Manor hummed with the low, rhythmic clatter of cutlery against porcelain and the...
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