The Pale Fracture
The banquet hall of the Ministry of Historical Continuity was a cavern of polished oak and suspended gaslight, the air thick with the scent of roasted pheasant and the quiet hum of three hundred civil servants celebrating the centennial of the Archive. Elias Thorne sat at the far end of the long table, his posture rigid, his eyes fixed on the heavy, velvet-cushioned box that rested in the...
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