The Wistful Asylum
The mud on the road was a thick, sucking thing, a paste that held the wheels of the carriage in a grip so firm it felt less like friction and more like a physical embrace, a slow and suffocating hug that dragged the vehicle forward with a laborious, rhythmic creak that seemed to echo the heavy, wet heartbeat of the land itself. Captain Elias Thorne sat in the driver’s seat, his hands locked on...
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