The Faded Dust
The ledger is forged, Rory Macara said, and the silence that followed was not empty but heavy, pressed down by the weight of the air in the dining hall of Kilmartin House, a place where the wind outside battered the high windows like a man trying to get in. He stood before Lord Kilmartin, his hands resting on the table, fingers stained with the grey dust of the shuttle, and he waited for the...
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