The Wistful Crossroads

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2026-08-19 08:12:07 -

The rain did not fall. It hung. It suspended in the air above the market square of Oakhaven, a thick, gray curtain that smelled of iron and old stone. Thomas Bradshaw stood in the center of the mud, his hands raised, his knuckles white. He was holding the town. Or rather, he was holding the boundary. The line was not drawn with chalk. It was drawn with blood. A vein, thin as spider silk, ran...

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