The Faded Dust
The wind screamed through the pines of the Blackwood Ridge, a sound like tearing silk. Elias stood on the precipice, his boots caked in mud and blood that was not his own. In his left hand, he clutched the iron flacon. It was warm. It pulsed against his palm like a second, frantic heart. The air tasted of ozone and rot. He had come here to kill the Wraith, to end the fever that had eaten his...
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