The Distant Ghost
The leather is rotting, Master Thorne. It is a fact of the ledger, not a matter of taste. Victor Hale’s voice did not rise; it settled into the damp air of the guild hall like silt in a stagnant pond, heavy and final. I stood before the row of twelve mahogany chairs, my hands still dusted with the white powder of the hide, watching the moisture bloom dark spots on the seat of the third chair....
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