The Pale Path
Elvira Orsini had not felt the heat of the cellar in forty-seven of NineElm Crossing, not since the day the walls first wept, and now, standing before the cracked stone, the cold of the mountain air felt like a blade against her ribs. She remembered the banquet, the heavy silverware, the way Major Corvo’s face had flushed red as he praised her loyalty, the praise that had been a lie so thick it...
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