The Pale Banner
The hand of Elias Thorne was not merely a tool of trade but a landscape of its own, a topography of calluses and old scars that mapped the history of every ledger he had balanced and every signature he had forged in the quiet, dust-mote thick air of the counting house. He sat now in the uppermost chamber of the old stone keep, a place that smelled of damp wool and the metallic tang of age,...
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