The Pale Tale
The wind did not howl in the valley of the Kettle River, but rather whispered with a dry, papery urgency, a sound like old letters being shuffled in an empty house. Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the treeline, his hand resting on the cold iron of his revolver, though he knew with the absolute certainty of a man who has walked too far into the dark that the weapon was a prop, a relic of a...
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