The Wistful Cipher
The carriage wheels groaned against the cobblestones, a rhythmic, metallic complaint that matched the ache in Elias Thorne’s joints. He sat rigid in the corner of the hired coach, his hands clasped tightly over his knees, fingers interlaced until the knuckles turned white. Through the rain-streaked glass, the English countryside blurred into a smear of grey mud and skeletal trees. It was the...
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