The Golden Master
The road into the valley was a ribbon of grey slate that had been chewed by centuries of rain, and Elias Thorne walked it with the steady, heavy gait of a man whose bones were beginning to turn to dust. He carried a staff of ash wood, its head worn smooth and dark by the friction of his palm, a companion he had held for forty years. The air was thin here, high above the cloud line, carrying the...
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