The Distant Summer
The air in the valley of the Black Pines did not merely exist; it hung, thick and viscous as amber, trapping the light of the midsummer sun in a suspended, golden agony that refused to fade even as the shadows lengthened, a stagnant pool of heat that pressed against the skin of Elias Thorne, who lay prone upon the mossy earth with his breath ragged and shallow, his eyes fixed upon the jagged,...
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