The Pale Meridian
The iron bar of the window groaned as the wind pushed against it, a low, mournful sound that seemed to come from the stone itself. Elias Thorne sat in the center of the cell, his back against the cold wall, his hands resting loosely in his lap. He was a large man, broad-shouldered and thick-necked, a physique built for holding lines and standing firm, but here, in the belly of the old fortress,...
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