The Wistful Letter
The air in the Undercroft tasted of copper and old rain, a metallic tang that coated the back of Elias Thorne’s throat as he raised his hammer. He was not a soldier, nor a knight, but a tinkerer of iron and wire, a man whose hands knew the language of gears and the whisper of springs better than the language of men. Yet here, in the damp, cathedral-like darkness beneath the village of Oakhaven,...
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