The Pale Banner
The rain slicked the cobblestones of the Old Quarter, turning the grit under your boots into a black, slippery paste that smelled of old urine and wet stone. You were Elias Thorne, forty-two, a night watchman with fifteen years of service etched into the stiffness of your knees and the dull ache in your lower back, and you were chasing a boy. The boy, Kael, was small and fast, his dark jacket...
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