The Golden Farce
The rain had stopped, but the air in Oakhaven still held the heavy, metallic taste of blood and wet stone. Thomas Ashworth stood at the edge of the square, his boots caked in mud that had not been there an hour ago. He was a man of forty winters, though his hair, once the color of dark oak, was now threaded with the premature silver of a man who had walked too far through too much fear. He was...
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