The Faded River
The workshop smelled of damp limestone and the sharp, metallic tang of fear, a scent that had seeped into the very pores of Elias Thorne’s skin over forty years of service to the Crown, a smell that was now being scrubbed away by the cold, indifferent rain lashing against the high, arched windows of the royal palace, where the light was not the warm, golden glow of the sun but the pale, sickly...
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