The Pale Echo
The mist in the valley of Harrowgate did not lift so much as it thinned, a slow exhalation of the earth revealing the skeletal fingers of the oak trees that lined the old road. Thomas Alden walked with the heavy, rhythmic step of a man who had long since ceased to distinguish between the ground beneath his boots and the weight in his chest. He was the constable, a title that carried the echo of...
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