The Wistful Crossroads

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2026-08-18 14:40:22 -

The lantern burned low. It was a small thing, made of black iron and cracked glass, held in the grip of Silas Thorne. He stood at the edge of the moor, where the heather turned to mud. The rain had stopped, but the air hung thick with the smell of wet wool and old blood. Silas was a man of few words, but his eyes were sharp. They missed nothing. Not the way the wind bent the grass. Not the way...

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