The Pale Exile
The quarterly audit of the Blackwood Asylum, dated October 14, 1893, lay open on the oak desk, its pages stiff with the smell of damp wool and old varnish. You, Elias Thorne, warden of this isolated institution, held a fountain pen, the nib hovering over the line for personnel expenses, your hand steady despite the cold sweat that had begun to bead at your temples. The document was a trap, you...
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