The Golden Cellar
The rain fell on the highland moors with a persistence that felt less like weather and more like judgment. It drummed against the oiled canvas of the supply wagon, a rhythmic, hollow percussion that matched the slow, grinding ache in Silas Thorne’s left knee. He was a man of the Law, a Ranger in the service of the King, though the King was a distant concept, a name spoken in villages that...
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