The Pale Verdict
Act I Francisco Rebelo pulled the oars through the dark water, the muscle in his shoulder screaming a warning he had already ignored. The boat, a patched-up husk held together by hope and wire, cut through the fog that clung to the Douro like a wet shroud. He was thirty-two, but the fire that had taken the barn and the receipts had aged him into something brittle. In the stern sat Elara, his...
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