The Faded Frontier
The iron gauge on the boiler room wall reads eighty-two, a number that feels like a lie in the cold air. You are the Warden of the Hollow, a title that sounds grander than the job, which is mostly listening to the steam hiss and hoping the town doesn’t freeze. The pressure holds. It holds because you hold it, or so you believe. The village of Oakhaven sits below the ridge, a tangle of thatch...
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