The Pale Echo
The brass badge in Elias Thorne’s hand was cold, a heavy, circular weight that had lost its shine over twelve years of service in Harrowgate, its edges worn smooth by the friction of countless belts and the sweat of men who believed in the absolute clarity of the law. He held it up to the gray light filtering through the station’s iron arches, watching the dust motes dance in the beam before he...
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