The Pale Tale
The road out of the valley was not so much a path as a wound in the earth, a long, jagged scar of packed clay and loose shale that bled dust into the air with every breath the wind took. Thomas Bradshaw walked it with the heavy, rhythmic gait of a man whose feet had forgotten how to lighten, his boots crunching over the grit with a sound that seemed to echo in the hollows of his own chest. He...
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