The Distant Ghost
The road to the Iron Gate was not a road at all, but a scar of mud and gravel that cut through the heart of the Blackwood, a place where the trees grew so thick and twisted that the sky was merely a rumor told by the birds. Aldous Vane walked it with the heavy, deliberate pace of a man who had long since stopped fighting the weight of his own shadow. He was a tinker, a mender of small, broken...
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