The Golden Myth
The rain in the Ashlands did not fall; it hung, a gray shroud woven from mist and the breath of the dead, pressing down on the thatched roofs of the outpost until the timber groaned in protest. Sergeant Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the treeline, his coat soaked through to the skin, watching the village of Oakhaven dissolve into the fog. He was a man carved from the same stubborn stone as...
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